FROM THE ARCHIVES: Mountaintop Moments

We've published hundreds of stories from 100+ writers in the last three years, so we're highlighting some of these timeless posts in our new From the Archives series. Enjoy!

If life is a climb, college might have been my peak.

Last week, visiting my college campus, I thought I peaked as a college senior. I was with some friends and roommates from senior year, back in Boston while the leaves were still sweet-colored and the air not yet bitter cold. “That was as good as it’s ever been,” I said, as we reminisced on our old shenanigans, ate breakfast potatoes, and drank mimosas like we’d done for so many weekends over the course of the past school year. “I have never been better than I was when I lived with all of you.”

Later on, catching up with old friends, I thought I had peaked when I was someone’s girlfriend. I was bemoaning being single in a sea of postgrad “dating” that threatened to drown me. “Maybe I’ve already peaked in love,” I said, recalling the ghosts of relationships past and all the ups and downs that came with them. “Maybe that was as much as I could have hoped for.”

And then one night, sitting in a Spanish bar in New York City, I thought I peaked when I studied abroad. I was with a girl I’ve called a friend for seventeen years now, and we ate patatas bravas and drank Alhambra Especials and got choked up with laughter and nostalgia. “I peaked in Spain,” I said, as we swapped stories about our semesters abroad. “I was a completely new version of myself. I’d never been that happy before.”

Now I’m at home, on a weekend, back in my childhood bedroom after four years of college-level independence, still trying to make it feel like home again. And I’m wondering if you only get to peak once.

***

I will never say I peaked in high school. I spent high school wishing desperately for self-confidence. I would look at the girls around me, in my classes, on my teams, in the hallways, and I never measured up in all the ways I wanted to. I could only see all the ways in which I would never be on their level.

And then I got to college, and somehow, early on, I decided that Boston College was too big to compare myself to anyone except—myself. I had no interest in striving for any “level” except my own happiness. Sure, I still spent some nights lonely, and some days beating myself up over whatever circumstances, and a lot of time second-guessing myself. But the standards I set were largely my own, and those four years were endlessly more rewarding for that. If I have been my best self anywhere, I was my best self in college.

Removed from the college bubble and re-planted in a new life, the field is wiped clean again. I have to again make a real, conscious decision about where I fit in and how I stack up. There seem to be metrics in place for who’s “winning” post-grad—high-power job? committed relationship? best apartment? coolest city?—but there’s no prize. New York is enormous, and social media is a daily tidal wave, and there have been days when I feel so small. I don’t text back, or I get cranky for no reason, or I’m hard on myself for the words I don’t say, the actions I don’t take, the things I don’t have. If other people believe I’m living up to those unspoken metrics of post-grad life, and if the myth arises that I have it all together, I don’t debunk it—it’s a myth I really, really want to believe.

But even if I spend days feeling otherwise, I know I get to create my best self for myself, the same way as it came about in college: against nobody’s standards but mine. Like Liz Gilbert says in Big Magic, if I choose, if I commit to choosing, I can make joy my main metric for success.

I’ve found immense value in going to work in a job I love, spending eight hours a day talking about books. I’ve found satisfaction in daily workouts, even if sometimes it takes a half hour of lying on the floor before I can pull on a sports bra. I’ve found joy in continued learning—it’s not my beloved philosophy classroom, but it’s listening and conversation and a subscription to the New York Times. I’ve found that I can feel on top of the world if I wear red lipstick, or buy high-top Converse, or listen to the Hamilton soundtrack, or go for a long walk. If I look in the mirror close enough these days, I’ve found that my best self looks back.

I’ve found that I can still be the best version of myself, outside of the place that brought that best self to realization. And the peaks I’ve thought I reached have never been the top of what I can be.

***

I’m in front of my mirror, about to go to bed at 10pm on a Friday night. It’s been a long, albeit fulfilling, week at work, and I have zero plans this weekend. I’m looking forward to sleeping in, cleaning up around the house, feeling rested for the first time in too long. I lean away from my reflection and smile. “You might be at the peak,” I tell myself. “You’ve worked to be where you are and you deserve to feel damn proud of it.”

But I know I haven’t peaked once and for all. Really, I hope I get to peak over and over again, throughout this year and every year to come. I hope the only comparisons I ever make are when I seek my best self in my reflection, and I hope I always know how to be proud of whoever I see looking back. And I hope I keep building a kind of life that feels like joy and mountaintop moments, no matter where I go.

[This post was originally published on November 20, 2016.]

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Featured

The End of An Era: Saying Goodbye to Windrose

Hi friends,

Announcement (sounds so formal, doesn’t it?):

It's the end of an era.

I’ve decided that, after nearly 8 years of telling stories of navigating life, this season of Windrose is drawing to a close.

Even Here: Words for When You're Wandering

When I was 22 years old, I visited the desert for the first time.

A metaphorical desert, if we’re getting technical.

I was fresh out of college, starry-eyed and eager to begin my post-grad life. I had big ‘ole me-centered dreams: a shiny, brag-worthy PR job in the music industry! An apartment with an exposed brick wall that (somehow) would fit an upright piano! A committed relationship with a kind, goofy man!

I got exactly none of those things.

To summarize an entire year’s worth of emotion: I was devastated.

What is Home?

Late last night, I flew back into town after a week away, the city lights covering the Valley like a blanket of incandescent flowers. I’ve flown into Phoenix at least a dozen times at this point. Usually, I can identify a handful of landmarks, like my antenna-scarred South Mountain or the twinkling lights of the bridges spanning Tempe Town Lake.

Flying into Nashville, however, was always different.

I Don't Live Here Anymore

I recently returned to Nashville for the first time since moving to Phoenix five months ago.

Before my reunion, I often said that the word “home” could apply to both Nashville and Phoenix. Nashville is my home. Phoenix is my home. I could find that home-sweet-home feeling in both cities.

During my 8 days back, I frequented my old haunts. The brickwalled coffee shop still serves the meanest mocha in town. The hillside winery still proves to be a worthwhile spot to sip away a sunny Sunday afternoon. The hip burger joint still offers a lovely evening to dine with friends, new and old. The lime-green Mexican restaurant on the corner of Whitebridge still feels like a queso-soaked refuge.

There were many “stills,” but there were changes, too.

Why did you move?

A cardstock print sits propped against the lamp on my desk: a taupe watercolor swipe outlining a peakside Saguaro, the sun a tiny ring above. Beneath this minimalist illustration are these words in typeface: “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”

I happened upon this notecard-sized print on the way out of a shop last weekend, after already having completed another purchase. It was the last print of its kind in the pile. I had to have it. I returned to the cashier: “This one, too.”

You see, this verse has been a thread weaving through my story, simple words spoken by a prophet long dead, a passage of comfort I’ve returned to again and again since my pilgrimage to the desert four years ago, when I inked a cactus on my wrist.

The Good Old Days

Last week was National Margarita Day.

I did not, however, celebrate the holiday. Truthfully, I’ve yet to find THE Mexican place here in Phoenix. You know the one: gaudy decorations, cheap food, even cheaper margaritas.

But there’s a Mexican restaurant at the corner of Charlotte and Whitebridge in Nashville, TN.

You may have heard of it.

Witching Hour (or, Fighting Off Demons at 3 am with a Box Cutter)

Between the hours of 3 - 4 am, I find myself awakened by nothing in particular. The room is silent. There is no sound outside. No loud car horns. No dogs barking.

I’m upset.

I wish it was something other than just me. Then I could stop it. Nothing is to blame. It feels like moments have passed since I closed my eyes. The moments of a long dreamless sleep last about 4 hours.

10 Life Lessons This Cross-Country Move is Attempting to Teach Me

There are a few lessons life has attempted to teach me since my move — all things that I haven’t yet spiced up into a full essay, but deserve to be memorialized by my metaphorical pen nonetheless.

So I present a collection of lessons I’ve learned — and am still learning — in the last 3 months.

What Will Your Life Look Like?

Tomorrow marks 3 months.

Three months here, sharing a zip code with Saguaros.

“So how is Phoenix?” a friend asked me over the phone as I sat on my balcony beneath glowing string lights, a pour of raspberry wine in my hand. The sun was setting, painting the eastern mountains with rosy swipes of redemption.

How has Phoenix been these last three months?

What is it Trying to Tell You, if Only You’d Listen?

I went on a date recently. Two glasses of Riesling, pleasant conversation, and a perfectly amicable guy — it was an altogether fine evening.

However, I wasn’t interested in a second date.

Not because of any run-for-the-hills red flags. Not because I didn’t think he was cute. Not because we didn’t get along. I simply — wasn’t interested.

There’s no better way to explain it. No fear-based avoidance of the potential for a healthy relationship. No disdain for commitment that needs a heavy round of therapy to work through. Nothing deeper than the inner sense that a second date just wasn’t necessary.

But, I said yes to getting dinner again with him.

The Other Side of Yes

I’m a No Girl.

In many ways, this is a good thing. I’m able to confidently decline invitations that disinterest me.

“Want to go whitewater rafting?” No thank you, I’m comfy right here on the bank.

“Want to do a shot?” No thank you, I’ll take my liquor with lime juice and Triple Sec, plz.

“Want to try this carrot cake?” No thank you, Harry, I can’t eat gluten.

“Want to go to Broadway?” No thank you, I’d prefer to go to bed.

In many ways, however, being a No Girl originates less from personal boundaries and more from fear. Fear and I happen to be pretty tight; we talk on the daily. Fear has been the primary consultant for many of my life decisions, in fact.

A Song for Growth

A year ago, a friend of mine got a job at a well known tech company. He had been slogging through the interviews, and he finally got an offer. Obviously he deserved it. He was a hard worker, and his attitude for success and life was admirable to say the least. I knew he was beyond qualified.

But at the time, I was on a career path I couldn’t see myself being happy in. I had made the mistake of staying in the industry mainly for the money. Every month in the industry was a reminder of how much I did not want to stay. It created a nasty cycle of overthinking and career angst. Feelings of inadequacy and existentialism rooted themselves deep inside me. I couldn’t focus on anything and was utterly disconnected from the work I was doing.

I admit I wasn’t happy for him.

Dreams, Life, GraduationMelissa WartenJuly 4, 2018Featured, From the ArchivesComment

FROM THE ARCHIVES: Mountaintop Moments

We've published hundreds of stories from 100+ writers in the last three years, so we're highlighting some of these timeless posts in our new From the Archives series. Enjoy!

BUY 1, GET… AS MANY AS YOU WANT!

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