Hi!
It’s me.
For much of my life, I believed everyone else had received instructions I somehow missed.
They seemed so certain.
So confident.
So capable of navigating adulthood without repeatedly standing in the pantry holding crackers and questioning existence.
The older I get, the more I suspect we’re all wandering around with hand-drawn maps, pretending we know where we’re going.
This essay is for anyone who has ever felt lost, behind, broken, overwhelmed, or temporarily rerouted by life.
In other words, most of us.
As always, my favorite British lady has agreed to narrate while I continue searching for the customer service desk for adulthood.
Take it away, my darlin’.
Directions to Peace (Results May Vary)
Right.
So apparently there are directions to healing.
People say this with confidence, as if somewhere there’s a nicely printed full color map handed out at trauma orientation next to complimentary herbal tea.
There isn’t.
You begin exactly where you are — emotionally jet-lagged, recently unmoored, and somehow responsible for continuing to be a functioning adult despite your life having quietly exploded.
Step one: get out of bed.
Not heroically.
You sort of roll sideways like a suitcase falling off an airport carousel.
Progress.
Walk forward.
You’ll pass a large flashing sign that says:
LEFT HEMISPHERE CLOSED FOR NO APPARENT REASON.
Do not panic.
This explains why you can no longer remember words like ladle, or why you stood in the pantry holding crackers wondering who authorized existence.
Continue anyway.
Soon you’ll arrive at a dusty crossroads where logic gives up entirely.
You’ll stop to ask a guy in a Ranger’s baseball cap and some nicely fitting Levi jeans for directions because he looks confident in the way men who have never processed an emotion often do.
He’ll say things like:
“You’ll never guess where I’ve been.”
Resist the urge to poke him in the forehead while saying, “Skip intro.”
He’ll continue by suggesting that you follow him, and that what you both should do is:
“Head south.”
“Then travel east.”
And you’ll say,“Listen, Magellan — do I turn at love and connection, or do I go toward confidence and empowerment?”
He will blink.
He does not know.
No one knows.
This is when you realize everyone is improvising adulthood.
Carry on.
You’ll decide to scale Mama Mountain, where you’ll pretend to hold the rope to catch your children if they fall — but they, it turns out, are actually your belays, not the other way around.
Eventually, the road narrows and you’ll cross Cardiac Bridge in your 50s — an unexpectedly effective networking opportunity where you’ll meet several Emergency Room doctors, a cardiologist, and very nearly meet Jesus.
This is where your cosmic life coach informs you that you did not make the team. This portion of the journey is not recommended, but apparently builds perspective.
You’ll leave with a renewed appreciation for oxygen, quiet mornings, and the radical luxury of simply being alive.
Proceed carefully from here.
You are softer now.
But also less willing to waste time pretending.
Next comes your journey through Dissolution Valley and the Intersection of People Saying Unhelpful Things About Divorce.
You’ll hear:
• “Everything happens for a reason.”
• “You’re so strong.”
• “Time heals.”
Nod politely while internally filing charges.
Take a hard left into Anger.
Stay awhile.
Here you discover you were not “too sensitive” — you were exhausted. Spiritually overbooked. Emotionally subcontracted without consent.
When anger evolves into sarcasm, congratulations. Healing has begun.
Proceed toward Grief Boulevard.
Everything reminds you of your Mama.
Everything.
A spoon.
A phrase she used to say.
An old recipe card.
An aroma that feels suspiciously like a memory tapping you on the shoulder and asking if you have a minute.
You will wake at 3 a.m. for months hearing her voice cry for help.
You will weep in parking lots.
You will stand in the grocery store staring at a brand of crackers and suddenly become a weather event.
Accept this as a heartbreaking but temporary hobby.
And if you’ve lost someone too, you already know this:
Grief is love with nowhere obvious to go.
Keep walking.
Eventually you reach Freedom Alley, which is unsettling because freedom feels less like fireworks and more like standing alone in a quiet house wondering who you are when no one needs anything from you.
No caregiving.
No crisis management.
No emotional air traffic control.
Just you.
Resist the urge to go back.
Those versions of you were survival strategies, not permanent addresses.
Cross Self-Doubt Overpass.
Halfway across, a voice asks:
Who do you think you are starting over now?
Answer honestly:
A woman with fewer illusions and better instincts.
Also — fuck you.
Continue.
You’ll notice unusual developments:
• laughter returning unexpectedly,
• boundaries appearing without apology,
• curiosity waking up like a cat that’s decided you might be worth sitting beside again.
Follow that.
And if you’re anything like me, you’ll keep looking around for an adultier adult to confirm you’re doing life correctly.
I have disappointing news.
They’re all making it up too.
The people who seem certain.
The people with color-coded calendars.
The people posting inspirational quotes from boats.
Every single one of us is wandering around holding a map we drew ourselves five minutes ago.
Eventually you arrive somewhere quiet.
No applause.
No enlightenment certificate.
No commemorative tote bag.
Just space.
And for the first time in a long while, you realize you are not bracing for impact.
That’s peace.
Not happiness.
Not closure.
Not some permanent state of enlightened emotional exfoliation.
Just the absence of the feeling that you have to carry everyone else at the expense of yourself.
The realization that your shoulders can lower now.
The understanding that your worth was never dependent upon how much weight you could carry.
If you get lost again — and statistically you will by Tuesday — simply begin wherever you are.
Most of us are walking around believing everyone else received better directions.
They didn’t.
We’re all standing at different intersections asking the same questions.
There was never one correct path.
Only the moment you stopped abandoning yourself to follow someone else’s map.
If there are directions at all, they were never printed.
Only felt.
One small, stubborn step at a time.
Also drink water.
Apparently dignity requires hydration.
Love, Lannie♡
