The Accidental Retreat

The room is overflowing with eager conference attendees, abuzz with palpable dreams of transformation. The theme of this week’s retreat is “Finding the True You.” Makes me want to vomit, but hey, I just work here. I took this extra shift, in desperate need of quick cash after my boyfriend abruptly moved out. He offered to pay his share of the rent for the next few months, but my new Functioning Adult Status, and frankly my pride, didn’t allow me to accept his money. I’m rethinking that decision right now as I’m working for the eighth day in a row.

So here I am, stuck inside on this beautiful spring day, clearing the discarded plates of self-satisfied women, smug in the belief that they now hold the keys to enlightenment. They are dutifully, with inexplicable enthusiasm, huddled in groups to answer “Transformation” questions displayed on index cards, scattered on the table in front of them:

Who would you be if your success script wasn’t getting in the way?

What advice would your inner child give you, today?

As you imagine your new future, what obstacles did you overcome to get there, and what gifts have you discovered?

I’m sorry, but what the actual fuck? My bad, I really am trying not to swear so much. But these women paid over a thousand dollars for this day of “Unlock your tools for ultimate self-discovery. Stop denying who you really are and start celebrating your true self!” I saw the amount they handed over when my supervisor and I smirkingly processed their online payments. Suckers.

I know what you’re thinking. I don’t sound very mature or open-minded, which I should be now that I have achieved Functioning Adult Status. I promise you that I worked hard to get to this point, and most of my life lessons were not fun. Seriously not fun, and almost always embarrassing. Now that I think about it, the suggested guidelines I am now living by aren’t that far off from this preachy swill the conference attendees are sucking down like the last dregs of a melting Slurpee.

What I don’t understand, though, is why these questions even need answers. Isn’t it enough to enjoy what you have? I thought that was what all of that practicing gratitude nonsense was about. I’m happy that I have managed to avoid marrying an ax murderer (is an ax murderer even a thing?) or losing all my money to a pyramid scheme! I am not denying that I’ve made questionable choices in the past. Slight understatement. But that is the old me, and I have become better at making responsible adult choices, as evidenced by my healthy and balanced relationship with Steve. Until I managed to screw everything up, and he moved out for reasons that I haven’t been able to figure out.

Steve, my homebody boyfriend who is content with his tedious hobbies (cooking, reading, meditating, that kind of evolved, Zen stuff), had the nerve to tell me that he was bored with my reticence. Wait, what? I am anything but boring, you never know what to expect from me! My moods are super unpredictable, aka I’m so full of delightful surprises! And, I’m pretty much up for anything! Ice skating? Sure! Escape room? Hell yeah. Karaoke? Name the song!

What I’m not up for is anything new-agey like meditation, sound or forest bathing, self-help groups, or therapy (tried that for awhile, but she just wanted to talk about my childhood. My mom died forever ago, ancient history.) No thank you. Life is so much easier when you don’t think about everything, analyze it in paralyzing detail. I was raised to suck it up and figure a way through it. I’d say it’s been working pretty well. I know, I know…then why did Steve move out?

I’m not feeling equipped to deal with my emotions. Yuck. These unwelcome feelings are coming up now that Steve is gone, and I truly, honestly, have no idea what made him leave. Not even two weeks ago, he was telling me that he would do anything for me, that I was his favorite person, the one he couldn’t wait to get home to. And miracle of all miracles, I feel the same way about him!

Now that I think about it, there were tears, his tears; is it possible that I didn’t react the way a Functioning Adult should have?

I thought I was offering the appropriate “that means so much to me, I care a lot about you, I’ll try to be better about acknowledging you.” I thought my clumsy attempts were enough to appease him when he was being “sensitive.” But this time, he looked at me, like a wounded puppy, shook his head and left the room. I had a vague sense that my trite “one size fits all” answers did not apply to this situation. I could tell I had let him down, but I genuinely believed I had been a worthy girlfriend to him. I mean, I’m a very positive person and I’ve received feedback that I’m quite, um, enthusiastic in bed. Not to brag.

As I read over this, I can see where I might seem immature. But if you really think about it, my rational approach to life shows just the opposite: I have grown into a fully Functioning Adult! I don’t waste time whining over fragile feelings, trying to placate others, or doubting my capabilities. Society does enough to make women question themselves so I’m not going to subscribe to any of those caretaker, co-dependent roles. Nope. And I thought my independence and clarity of mind were the things that Steve liked best about me!

Lost in my thoughts, I realize that I’ve been absently staring at a table full of balayaged, botoxed, Lululemon-wearing women a bit too long. They look up at me, one of them offering a welcoming smile.

“Ebony! Isn’t all of this amazing? You must feel so lucky to get to soak up all this wisdom, for free!” She beams at me, saying my name as if we’re best friends. I hate this damn nametag they make us wear. Oh, yeah, Bethany, I’m living the dream, cleaning up after spoiled women whose biggest worry is if they’ve gained five pounds.

I know, I’m being unnecessarily judgmental, but I bet you were thinking the same thing—admit it. The truth is, I don’t know these people at all, and it is possible they might have a modicum of depth that led them to explore their “true” selves. Yes, my tone still has an edge of sarcasm to it, sorry.

I’ve been told that I need to engage more with people, so I sigh inwardly before offering in my most humble tone: “I do feel really lucky! I wish I had the wisdom to know the right questions to ask myself, you know?”

“I know exactly what you mean!” Is this lady serious right now? “That’s why Fiona told us to close our eyes, reach out, and feel the energy of the cards to find the one that most speaks to us.” I must have missed that part. “Oh, wow” is all I can muster.

She claps her hands with delight, her ponytail bobbing. “Ebony! You should pick one!”

Oh God, this is way too much engagement. “I couldn’t possibly, I’m supposed to be working right now,” I murmur.

“Come on, you probably haven’t taken a break all morning!” Without waiting for my response, she gathers the cards, shuffles them, and fans them out on the table in front of me. Her tablemates are suddenly silent, rapt with attention.

I figure the quickest way out of this is to give in, so I smile, offer a slight shrug and announce, “Okay cards, show me the way!” She claps again-- what’s with all the clapping--and orders me to close my eyes. She gently guides my hand over the cards, instructing me to find the card that “has your life lesson.” Seriously, kill me now.

I hover my hand over the cards, feigning deep concentration. After a respectable amount of time, I slap my hand down and grab the card closest to me.

“Wonderful, Ebony! What does it say?” As if I’d let her steal my moment alone with the answer to my life’s problems!

I grasp the card and stuff it into my apron, picking up the rest of their plates as I head toward the kitchen. I hear murmuring behind me as I make my escape.

***

I’m only admitting this to you, but I was kind of curious what was on the card. I know, after all that crap I talked about everyone. But I am feeling my Functioning Adult Status slipping away from me, and part of being an adult is problem-solving and maintaining a growth mindset—right? I don’t have to accept what’s on the card, just allow myself to be open to it. Geez, I am already starting to sound like some kind of life coach. Bleh.

Turns out I am due for a break, so I head outside, finding a shaded bench under the fragrant magnolia blooms. I fish out the card, flipping it several times in my hand before reading it. The words are comical in the way they seem to mock me:

“Who would you be if you listened to your heart?”

Why would I ever listen to my heart? I listen to my intuition, my better judgement, or whatever Alexa tells me when I need an answer right away. I listen to reason, listen to my father, but my heart? A heart is an organ, not a source of advice.

I know, I know, I said I would be open-minded, so I try to imagine how I could “Find My True Self” if I were to listen to my heart. I close my eyes, feeling the softness of the breeze. I allow my body to settle, finding a tenuous calm. After a few minutes of quiet reflection, it isn’t my heart that I hear, but rather something it lets me see, vivid in its depiction. It is a memory of my mother cooking in our tiny kitchen. We were in our old house, so I couldn’t have been older than seven. I smile when I see that she was attempting to recreate the carnitas tacos she and I discovered at our favorite taco truck, the one she would take me to on our “Just Us Girls” outings. Now I finally understand my strange obsession with pork tacos!

If I listen to my heart, I might allow myself to admit that I miss my mom. Every single day. This had always seemed so illogical to me since she was in my life for such a brief time. My dad remarried, and my stepmom is amazing, always making me feel like her daughter. It wasn’t like I stayed in bed crying over my mom—life had kept going.

So why is this ridiculous question on an index card, authored by an Instagram-famous life coach, bringing up these “big feelings” now? And while I’m trying to work! My therapist hadn’t been able to scratch the surface on this one. It dawns on me that I hadn’t been adult enough to talk about my mom with my therapist, yet. I needed my protective wall while I tried to figure out who I was, who I could even begin to trust with my damaged heart.

And then I met Steve, the most trustworthy man I’ve ever known. The one I’ve watched literally give the shirt off his back to someone who needed it. I now realize that I trust him, completely; and yet he has no reason to trust me. I have been reckless with his heart.

The movie in my head comes back into focus, but now my mom’s image looks completely different. I still have that warm, safe feeling when I watch, but it no longer looks like my mom. I continue to watch, mesmerized, as this other person turns to face me. In that moment, my heart fills and I see that the face smiling back at me is Steve’s.

I know the answer to that melodramatic, but perfect, question on the index card.

“Who would you be if you listened to your heart?”

I would be the person who gets off her ass and calls Steve, begging him to never let her be so clueless again.