when we are hungry for more

how to break the cycle of longing and give ourselves permission to feast

I’m a few days late in getting this out—I forgot how much traveling scrambles my brain! There’s so much to do (like making sure we have water and power), so many critical things breaking (tongue jack, water heater, fridge, etc.), so much to navigate (new towns, cities, grocery stores), and we’re living in 213 square feet with a zoo and no Wifi. Staying focused on my writing has been a bit challenging, to say the least. I’m also trying to re-incorporate movement into my day-to-day, and most days, because of the nature of my life right now, I’m choosing between working out and writing.

We’re now in Washington and checking out some potential places to live, which means we’re thoroughly combing the towns, looking at schools, housing, and amenities, and talking to locals, so it feels like a bit of a miracle to get a few hours at a local coffee shop to get some articles wrapped for my editor at Wildsam, do some invoicing and other admin work, and get a newsletter out. Late or not, this makes five consecutive weeks of getting my writing out in the world!

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On Friday last week, I woke early and drove into downtown Seattle, blasting Maggie Rogers, who I’ve just discovered because I find things in my own time (books, musicians, movies, you name it), and drove onto the ferry to Bainbridge Island. I wandered around the 400-foot ferry, finding myself happiest on the sun deck, right at the front of the boat where I could feel the wind. I took a selfie so I may look back someday and see how brave I was to take this trip alone. All the trauma still residing in my body is trying to protect me, but I kindly ask her to step aside and let me try to feel alive.

On the ferry to Bainbridge Island, WA. Seattle behind me, the island ahead.

My friend Steph greeted me outside her apartment on the island and welcomed me into her home, where her black pointer, Sid, and I became fast friends as Steph prepared coffee for her and chamomile tea for me. 

It’s not my place to share Steph’s story, but we began discussing hunger. Hunger as another word for desire, or perhaps an even more intensified longing, and as she spoke, telling me about all the ways she had been hungry and how she was finally full, tears pricked at my eyes. I thought of how I’d been starving for years, waiting to fill up, waiting to feel like I deserved to eat. I have often denied myself the nourishment I have needed. 

I thought I was giving myself everything by spending time in therapy, but is healing from the pain others have caused us living? What if there’s more than recovery? What if I want ease, and hope, and pleasure, and joy? 

After a long walk on the beach with Steph and Sid, we parted ways. I was ravenous, so I took myself to lunch, where I sat at the bar and asked for a cold glass of sparkling Prosecco, the Focaccia di acciughe with anchovies, castelvetrano olives, garlic oil, chili flakes, and parsley, and the Insalata del cuoco with crisp baby gem lettuce and cucumber, peppadew strips, mama lils pickled peppers, salty charcuterie, thick chunks of provolone, buttery castelvetrano olives, garbanzo beans, green onion, hard-boiled egg, and the most perfect umami parmesan dressing. I ate and ate, savoring each bite until I was satiated. 

When we were fighting, my ex-husband used to say to me, ‘You’ll never be happy’. I wanted things like love and faithfulness, but I also wanted beauty and creativity and expansiveness, even though I didn’t dare say those things out loud. According to him, I already wanted too much. Asking to be loved, asking for him to put in even a fraction of the effort I was, asking him to stay home and help raise our baby, to show up to work when he was scheduled so I didn’t have to beg our landlord to not kick us out of our apartment, all of these things were too much to ask for. You’ll never be happy meant you want too much. 

Hearing this over and over reinforced the idea I didn’t deserve to have the kind of life I wanted to have. I didn’t deserve real love, or to be treated with kindness and respect from not just my husband, but anyone I met or worked with. I didn’t deserve to feel goodness, joy, or beauty. I didn’t deserve to put my art or work into the world—people like me didn’t get to. His words got in my bones and stayed there long after I left him. I believed those words wholeheartedly even though I eventually learned I deserved more than what he gave me, and they contributed to my feelings of worthlessness for a very long time. Those words still live within me, even though they have lost much of their potency as I have healed and grown. I lived from within a deep well of pain before I met him, and this pain only grew when I realized no one in my life, not even the person I had chosen to love, wanted what was good or right or best for me. 

Never and always are absolutes, and life is more expansive and ever-changing than absolutes, but in a way, my ex-husband was right.