Through the Fog
Downsizing, doubt, and choosing truth over approval
I spent two weeks on Vancouver Island. Ten of those days were in Qualicum Bay, pet-sitting in exchange for housing.
On one memorable night, I drove to Port Renfrew.
It was pitch-dark and pouring rain. I drove winding roads through dense fog in a 30-year-old van, seeing only what was right in front of me. No cell service for an hour.
But I felt alive.
That’s what I’m after: that feeling.
Back home, I started downsizing. Selling furniture, storing boxes, getting rid of things. Part of me knew I’d come full circle: I had to destroy parts of what I’d built to move forward.
Fear crept in.
Was my longing for freedom worth all this destruction?
Am I attached to this feeling of home? On Vancouver Island, I didn’t miss home for a second. I spent ten days in someone else’s house. Then a friend’s cabin. Then I ended the trip alone at the lodge.
Both stability and freedom matter to me. But only in the right amount of each.
My inner chatter overwhelmed me.
Do I store my stuff until I find a steady base? (Which felt like a faraway dream.) Or do I sell it all and chase that immaterial lightness? Was I equipped to live like a free spirit and still keep my paycheck? What if I could get rid of all material possessions and only keep the van?
All I had to do was keep my creative practice alive. That’s my salvation from numbness: the only way I can show up as myself.
And if that’s true: who am I beneath the layers of my past?
Can I shed my masks? I want to, but I’m afraid of all the resistance. Of all the judging eyes and turning backs. But why would I fear them? What if I start attracting the kind of people I would never meet by walking around in my shell? What will my colleagues think of me? But what if they’re inspired instead?
And I don’t care what most people think, only the ones I respect.
I’m still in the fog. I can only see what’s next.
Some people won’t like me when I live truthfully. That’s fine. I want the liberation. I want the freedom to create.
