Proof I Was Always There
How a prompt about feeling fully alive revealed a version of myself that had been sitting in drafts all along.
A note: It’s been almost a year since I’ve written here. A lot has changed in that time - some quietly, some all at once. Over the past year, I’ve been untangling a lot about myself - the way I experience the world, and how certain places and moments make me feel so deeply. I think this piece is the closest I’ve come to explaining that feeling. Anyway. Hi again. I’m really glad you’re here. - Jen
I’ve been reading a book called Unmasking Autism by Devon Price, and one of the prompts asked a question I haven’t been able to stop thinking about:
Think of five moments in your life when you felt like you were fully alive. Moments that might leave you with a sense of awe and wonder - “wow, if all of life was like that, life would be amazing!”
At first, I assumed my answers would revolve around accomplishments or major life milestones - moments I knew I was supposed to feel proud of. I mean, what should make me feel more alive than the feeling of pride?
But when I stopped trying to come up with the “right” answers and let my mind wander instead, something surprising happened.
The memories that surfaced were small. Strangely specific. Quiet.
Times and places where my shoulders relaxed without me realizing it.
When I started writing the memories down, I realized they all share a common feeling: nature, creativity, openness, and little pockets of harmless weirdness.
Places filled with people who didn’t seem overly concerned with performing normalcy.
Places where I stopped feeling like I had to perform too.
Maybe the most surprising part is this - every memory happened when I was far from the version of life I was taught to want. None of the moments involved achievement or success. There was no applause. I wasn’t trying to impress someone.
I was just there.
Present enough to hear myself clearly for a while.
These are the five moments where I stopped hiding long enough to feel fully alive.
Adirondacks: Where I shed layers
During our years of traveling, we spent a lot of time in the Adirondack Mountains. There was one particular summer when I had been leaning more fully into parts of myself that I had spent years suppressing. I was doing more yoga, I was thrifting long, flowy skirts, doing sound bath meditation, lighting incense, and just slowing down to embrace intentional moments.
I realize that this was one time in my life when I stopped trying so hard to edit myself into someone easier to understand.
There’s one specific memory from that summer I still think about often.
Just a short walk from the campground at the end of a trail, there was a beautiful, scenic landscape where the mountains reflected perfectly into the lake below. The view was almost unreal.
I had this vision of taking photos in that spot, wearing one of my long, flowy skirts - but the truth is, I often have ideas like that and quietly talk myself out of them. I become too aware of myself. Too worried about looking awkward or like I’m trying too hard.
As our trip was coming to an end, my husband encouraged me to actually do it.
I was too nervous to make the walk to the overlook in my flowy skirt, so I tucked it into my jeans and put a jacket on to hide the bulge of fabric. We half-ran down the trail while I held all of the layers of clothing together until we reached the location. There, I peeled off my jeans and my jacket to reveal a crochet tank top and long flowy skirt - an outfit I’ve seen many others wear without hesitation, but one that felt impossibly vulnerable on me.
And then, the wind started blowing through my hair while Eric took photos of me standing there against the mountains. We were still laughing from our bellies at the thought of how we just ran down the trail, me with a skirt stuffed inside my pants. The whole experience suddenly felt playful and freeing in a way that’s difficult to explain. Not because of the pictures themselves, but because for once I let myself be fully seen without pulling away from the moment.
The Esther Cruise: Where I could dance
Another memory comes from a cruise that was hosted by the people behind Esther the Wonder Pig.
Which, honestly, yes, still sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.
Esther the Wonder Pig was a social media-famous pig who somehow captured the hearts of thousands of animal lovers across the internet.
Our family leans more into vegetarianism and a lifestyle that feels more connected to animals and nature, so this cruise presented us with an opportunity to contribute to a cause we connected with and to be surrounded by people with whom we shared common values. A couple of close friends and family members also joined us for the cruise, despite only loosely knowing who Esther was, simply because it was an opportunity to share a vacation experience.
Somehow, even though we were all technically strangers brought together by a pig, there was something incredibly genuine about the atmosphere on the ship.
One night, we were gathered in a piano bar singing “American Pie” together while people danced and laughed around us. I remember looking around at this wildly different group of people - some vegan, some not, some quiet, some loud, some eccentric, some soft-spoken - and I just felt this overwhelming sense of belonging.
And then, I danced.
Normally, I’m deeply aware of myself in situations like that. Too aware. I overthink how I look, whether I seem awkward, and whether I’m behaving correctly to fit in. But that night, surrounded by people who felt so open and accepting, something in me relaxed enough to let go of all of that for a little while.
And for the first time in a public setting, I let myself dance.
I remember catching a glimpse of my husband watching me with this sort of surprised happiness. It was like he was seeing a version of me that he doesn’t get to see very often.
Honestly, I think I was, too.
Key West: Where I could disappear for a while
Specifically, a restaurant called Blue Heaven.
Let me paint the picture:
From the moment you walk through the gate, it feels like you’ve stepped into a secret hippie garden. Twinkle lights hang above in the trees, roosters wander between the tables, and music drifts through the air.
What I love most about Blue Heaven is how secluded it feels. Like, for a few hours, the outside world simply ceases to exist. Nobody seems rushed. The noise quiets. People are lingering, unhurried, laughing, listening, and existing, exactly as they are.
And then there’s the key lime pie. A pie piled absurdly high with toasted meringue, which somehow feels perfectly fitting for a place that embraces joy in just an unapologetic way.
Every time we leave Blue Heaven, I notice the same feeling lingering underneath everything else: relief.
Blue Heaven isn’t just relaxing. It feels removed from the version of the world where I’m constantly aware of myself.
Relief from performing. Relief from hurrying. Relief from constantly feeling aware of myself. It feels like the kind of place that quietly gives people permission to take up space exactly as they are.
Maui: Where I finally exhaled
My husband and I took our youngest daughter to Maui for her graduation trip, and something about the island felt instantly calming to me. We spent our days doing yoga, visiting an animal sanctuary, wandering tiny natural food stores, and watching surfers prepare for the day from across the street each morning.
Everything just felt slower. Gentler.
At the end of the trip, my husband and I were sitting on the beach while the wind blew through my hair. In that moment, I felt so relaxed and emotionally open that I admitted something out loud that I would normally have kept to myself:
