Beauty, Despite It All

Yesterday, my singing teacher told me how strong she thinks I am. And you know what? I agree. Over the last year and a half, life has presented me with a relentless series of challenges: injuries severe enough to keep me from walking for months; the painful loss of my father and stepfather; navigating complicated estates and family lawsuits; the end of several relationships; losing and starting multiple jobs; returning to my mother’s house after years of independence; and confronting illnesses, infestations, and countless other trials.

When I write this out, it seems almost unbelievable—yet it’s very real. It is my lived experience. How do I find the strength to endure a seemingly endless barrage of difficulties, each of which on its own most people would consider extremely challenging? Because, trust me, they are. Objectively, this has been a profoundly overwhelming and difficult period of my life. Yet, I am okay. I get very stressed, but despite it all, I am still okay.

Why? Because of my connection to my body.

The patriarchy wants to disconnect us from our bodies. From our intuition. From the knowing that the earth is—and that we are—sacred.

Our best act of resistance is to return—again and again—to our own inner wisdom. To stillness, embodied movement, and breath. It is here that truth emerges.

It’s nice to be distracted every once in a while. To dream about a hopeful future. But as a fringe—and off-script—liver, I know that the unforeseeable pathless path is my path. I take one step in front of the other, and there I am—the only place I can be.

Plans can’t really exist. Life is simply a moment-to-moment experience where I try to honor my needs and my spiritual reality. It is all I have. All I can do. And only here can life continue to be lived.

Recently, I watched one of my dearest friends play viola at a Yom HaShoah event, honoring Holocaust survivors on the 80th anniversary of the end of the war in Europe. There were many beautiful and painful stories—stories of triumph and perseverance through the darkest darkness.

But the words of one survivor stay with me the most: “Listen to the birds and appreciate the flowers.”

This 95-year-old woman was not merely a survivor; she was a thriver. Her positive energy radiated through every molecule of that room. A true Elder—the kind America has forgotten how to honor.

Her words tap, tap, tap on my heart. “Don’t forget,” they whisper. “Don’t forget that the beauty around you is part of your story too. It is yours to claim now. And it is here—all around you.”

I am moving next week. To a place that will feel like Hawai’i—with flowers and birds all around.

And even after all the recent trials—all that pain, all that fear, all those moments when life felt overwhelming, when my freedom seemed taken away, when I couldn't live fully—I still saw the birds. The flowers. The ocean.

And that—along with songwriting and a few very special friends—kept me going.

That is joy. That is gratitude. That is the earth. That is what I live for.

The version of heaven that is available to us all.

I am eternally grateful that I am awake enough, present enough—despite it all—to enjoy it.