Wild Little Hare

What happens next?

A lot of people are choosing comfort over conscience right now. So many people are outsourcing their thoughts, and their reactions because complexity overwhelms a simple mind.

So many of us were shown, with religion or otherwise, that “belonging” matters more than anything else. More than integrity. More than independence. More than freedom. More than free-think. We were shown that agreement keeps us safe. That questioning the group risks rejection from the group.

So, conformity became moralized. Independent critical thinking got framed as betrayal.

It’s easier to accept the fabricated narrative that protects group identity, than it is to confront reality and risk your place in the group. It’s easier to defend, excuse, and ignore harm than to acknowledge what the harm says about the people you stand beside. Existing in the groupthink is so much easier than building a moral identity of your own. Any identity of your own.

Thinking critically about what’s happening around us would require grief. Shame. Accountability. It would mean admitting that the group you identify with is capable of cruelty- and that you helped normalize it through silence, justification, and compliance.

That kind of revelation is unbearable for those who have never learned how to sit with discomfort, or take responsibility for their beliefs.

So if we can continue to justify what’s happening-

What happens next?

Even you

I miss the days when “breaking news” preceded something other than just the daily drip of a devolving human race. The baseline of what’s accepted and supported in this current version of society has me wishing they’d at least bring back the lobotomies, too. (maybe they did already. maybe that’s how we got here in the first place.) It makes being grateful very, very easy. Grateful for this life I built. Grateful for a home filled with love and laughter. A partner who loves me at all my variations of sugar & spice and encourages all of my pipe dreams (!!!) Delicious food and treats always in the oven or in the fridge. A few dozen noses and beaks to remind me THIS is the whole point: Nurturing the land, and each other, and letting ourselves be nurtured in return.

I’m thankful to finally have the agency of choice, which allows me to choose a whimsy life of passion instead of purely existential necessity. I’m endlessly thankful I chose to survive the times I didn’t want to.

I used to believe that opposition was beautiful. I used to believe it meant growth; I used to believe opposition meant the opportunity to stand firmly in my beliefs. That it meant considering a perspective other than my own. I’m learning now that existence does not need to be an argument. Existence was not intended to be a struggle. Existence in society was meant to build tolerance and community of those around us.

_{Hard and uncomfortable conversations will only be successful with emotionally intelligent people.}

While shedding light, love and acceptance onto the past versions of myself that got me here today- I often find myself wondering how, at one time, I’d become so lowly that I allowed so many shallow minded individuals into my heart and home. Oblivious, conceited, needful, helpless, individuals.

I remember hollering often that I must have done something really terrible in a past life to have to pay the penance of having a myriad of these folks around me all at once.

_{The pain that you’ve been feeling, can’t compare to the joy that’s coming.}

I know that I never would have ran this far if the devil hadn’t been chasing me.

I wouldn’t have found this forest. I wouldn’t have found my husband. I wouldn’t have found my home, or my peace, or over half my animals. I wouldn’t have found a set of parents. I wouldn’t have found my purpose or path or career. I wouldn’t be living the life I’d always dreamed of.

It scares me to think I almost wouldn’t have known this timeline at all. It’s not hard at all to be grateful,

even for you.

Hello

“Have a good night, Micaela!” He quickly waved after dropping a brown paper bag on my desk.

A sweet gesture, just like the rest of them, left me in tears. It has amazed me my entire life how frequently I’ve been in the care of strangers instead of the folks you’d expect. I am simply a ward of the Universe. Parents? Checked out when I was 12. The man I’d spent the last 3 years loving? Probably bathing in a pool of his vodka vomit. My employer? Paying me so little, that the contractors they hired were dropping food off for me each night after I cracked a (half) joke that I’d been Dating for Dinner that week.

“Thank you, Shawn!” I called out down the hallway after him, hollering loudly in hopes of disguising the breaks in my voice.

It was 2019. I was 28. Going through what felt like a divorce with the man I’d seen as my entire family. I’d just moved to a little rural town with my 2 cats where I knew no one. This shitty job with an hour-long commute was the only thing that cared if I was dead or alive, and even then- they were about to can me.

o0o

“Good morning!” I called out to clinic staff as I set my laptop bag down. I heard Teresa speaking to someone at the front desk: “I’ll be right back,” she told him. I poked my head above the privacy wall to greet them both. He met my gaze shortly for a smile, then looked away.

Shawn.

I approached the counter: “Hey,” I said softly, “I think we used to work together.”
His eyes lit up with a smile, “Yeah, I was thinking you looked familiar! How long have you been all the way up here, Micaela?”

I was just telling Kalista last week: “It is a universal blessing to share positive updates with the people who witnessed our struggles.”

o0o

I noticed this week I’ve been rushing my commute. Rushing my appointments. Rushing through barn chores. Rushing through cooking. Rushing through baking. Rushing. Rushing. Rushing through this life I used to dream of. Rushing through the things I longed for. Cried for. Begged for. Rushing for what? I’m here, finally. I made it.

The past is such an authentic reminder of the path traveled.

_{Divine timing is never a mistake.}

Heavy on My Mind

I think about her often- especially during the month of July. However it’s written in the Universe, the time of great transition happens mid-July. Maybe it’s the summer heat that reminds me I’m alive. Maybe it’s the long hours of sunshine that remind me every moment is worth living. Whatever it is, I’m grateful for the catalyst, and grateful for the courage to trust it.

July 13, 2019: In the hours between being over-worked at a shitty firm and over-worked in a relationship drowning in airplane bottles of vodka buried in the yard, she took the leap. She was 28 and starved for a life that looked like hers. Starved for a reflection in the mirror that looked like her. Starved for a life of peace where authenticity did not need her to chase it. She signed the lease on a country home in a town she did not know.

July 13, 2022: She’d lost the house that was supposed to be her salvation. She’d lost her peace in a war of restraining orders and police reports. She’d lost her job. She’d lost her car. She’d lost any trace of a girl gang she’d had. She woke up sick every single morning. She packed up all her animals and signed the lease on a country home in a county she did not know.

July 13, 2025: Even though I do not recognize her, I remember her fondly. I admire her inability to give up, and the accomplishments she made without a support system at all. She did not have a sounding board of encouragement. She did not have parents for guidance. She did not have relatives footing the $bill of her mistakes. She had herself, her need for peace, and no other option.

I remember her fondly and accept the mistakes she had to make in order to survive. I remember her fondly and thank her for the sacrifices she made for the life I have now. I wouldn’t be so grounded, so sure, so confident in who I am or where I’m going without every misstep she experienced. I remember her “unrealistic” dreams and feel grateful it’s now my reality.

I get to work a job I enjoy, while gaining experience to make the leap into the career I’ve dreamed of since I was 14. I get to drive the car I whined for 10 years about wanting, through the winding forest road any time I leave the house. I share a beautiful property with not only all my animals that survived my shipwrecked past with me, but a dozen new additions, and the man I quite literally dreamed of. I get to find gratitude and appreciation in the state of peace I exist in. I get to enjoy the freedom of feeling safe and secure at home and in my town. Not hunted. Not hated. Not lied to or called names. Not unappreciated. Not underpaid.

Not starved for anything at all.

Not at all

He didn’t love me the way they do in the movies or songs

I wasn’t his little girl; I was not his pride nor joy.

He gave me distance and called it raising an independent child
He gave me tough love and called it prepping me for the real world
He placed me as second best and told me I should be grateful to know him at all

A 12-year-old girl wondering why her bestfriends dad felt more like home than her own

His cold shoulder gave me a relentless need to impress
His absence gave me a desperation for love
His self-importance gave me the acceptance of neglect

A 25-year-old woman choosing an age gap relationship with an emotionally unavailable man

My dad loved me the only way he knew how

My dad loved me the way he loved himself

Not at all

I’d ask my younger self to coffee,

but she’d insist on a cocktail instead.

We’d meet in the bar parking lot because we’d both be 12 minutes late.

I’d glance lovingly at her blue Chevy Cruze with a million miles on it while she’d do a double take at my 4Runner. She wouldn’t need to say it, for me to remember it’s her dream car.

The bartender would greet her with a smile and hug, but he wouldn’t remember me at all.
She’d order a double jack and a glass of water, and I’d order the same, just so I could slide my whiskey over to her when hers ran out. I’ll let her find out on her own that we stop drinking when we’re 32.

We’d pick the same outdoor corner table that we always did and make the same half-joke about getting matching tattoos at the shop next door.

I’d ask her how work was going, knowing damn well she was trying every day to make ends meet even though she was reaching her limit to walk out of that call center any day. I’d share details of my job with her and watch her jaw drop while I promised that working with kids is actually really fulfilling.

She’d ask about the hoof prints tattooed on my fingers, and I’d get to brag about the farm we finally made. I’d show her recent photos of Wolfgang and Ruger and their 25 new siblings.

When she asked about our parents, she’d beam proudly that I didn’t tear up when I confess it never does get better.

I’d remind her that all her struggles are temporary and even though sometimes it feels endless and lonely, that I’m always rooting for her and anxiously waiting for her at the end of the storm.

I know her fight-or-flight doesn’t let her think about me often, and sometimes it’ll get so hard she’s convinced that I don’t exist at all.

But she’s lovingly on my mind every, single, day.

If you even went,

you’d have to introduce yourself to everyone at my funeral.

You’d have to listen to the quirks of my personality and hear about all my favorite hobbies from people you didn’t know. You’d hear about my chocolate pumpkin scones from my neighbors, and my Mexican sweet bread from my boyfriend’s family. You’d hear about all the different flowers I know how to embroider from my old landlord, and the flowers and fruits and vegetables that I can grow from my old roommates. You’d have to hear about my Saturday night good times from my bar friends and about my accomplishments from my childhood bestie, who I hope wouldn’t bother to even tell you hello. You’d have no idea all the places I lived, or the jobs I worked, or what any of my animals were named. You’d have no idea my favorite food or what color my hair was. You’d have no idea how I turned out, or how much I was able to teach myself. You’d never know I turned out okay. I turned out empathetic and loving and encouraging and emotionally mature, even though all bets were off. You’d have no idea that I spent an entire decade grieving you.

In a room full of people who loved me, you’d have to tell them you’re my parents.

My hometown

The pitfall of a nomadic soul is being washed with envy anytime someone mentions their Hometown.

I’ve never lived in any single town more than a couple of years, and even then- I wasn’t interested in planting a root or taking any souvenirs when I left.

I’m a patchwork of every place I’ve been. A medley of every person I’ve met. To label anywhere my hometown would be a disservice to everywhere else I’ve lived. Each town has raised me. Each neighbor has helped me. Every piece of earth has had something to teach me.

“Where are you from?” has always been a dreaded question.

Recently, when asked “how I ended up out here”, I caught myself blushing a bit: “I’ve always had a crush on this place.”

Circa 2016, I wrote a blog on this very site where I talked about measuring my life’s chapters via “my commute home.” I was living in the Bay Area for only a few weeks at the time; I’d been driving back to Berkeley from Tracy after staying the night with a guy I’d later go on to almost marry (yikes). I’d been putting along in traffic on 580 and catcalling to the BART trains lining the center of the freeway. I remember feeling such a sense of accomplishment, achievement: Landing the job (plus a bartending job- cause Bay Area), securing a place to live for myself and my 2 cats.

I think about this blog often. I thought about it in 2018, while I walked 2 blocks from home to the plant nursery I worked at. I thought about it in 2019, while I used the hell out of my brakes in an hour of traffic each way. I thought about it in 2020, while I commuted 15 miles of flat, open farmland, often landing at the neighborhood bar before home. I thought about it in 2021 while I shuffled my slippers to the desk in my living room. I thought about it in 2022, while I crossed county lines for a job I intended to quit. I thought about it in 2023, while I navigated a two-lane winding forest road, gushing in gratitude that even though my commute was 30 minutes long, I sometimes didn’t encounter another car the whole way.

I thought about that blog this morning, laughing at how even though my life is so purely the opposite as it was 8 years ago, that same sense of accomplishment and achievement prevails. Landing the job and a secure place to call home with the love of my life and our 2 cats, 5 goats, 3 dogs, and 18 chickens.

So, maybe I fumble to answer where I’m from, but I sure am happy to call here home.

I owe it all to her

I’ve been feeling very nostalgic lately- My least favorite of the feelings, if I’m being honest.

It’s the nostalgia alone that makes me grovel in gratitude that I’ve curated a life free from shame or regret. Free from any memories that might make this sweet nostalgia feel apocalyptic. I’ve learned how to, and so very eagerly, shed light and love onto every version of myself. Accepting her through every misstep, every mistake, every over-stayed welcome when she should have seen the signs.

Being on the tail end of healing, means being absolutely aware that it was those scrappy past versions of myself navigating the land mines and closed doors that landed me where I am today. Being on the tail end of healing, has proved to me that not every lose is a loss, not every sweet memory requires resuscitation, and not every apology requires reconnection.

Being on the tail end of healing, I’ve discovered that somehow, a late apology hurts more than no apology at all.

I’m grateful I get to reflect on her troubles, trials, tribulations, and sorrow and sadness and trauma with admiration and absolute disbelief of her will to survive, her determination to thrive, her relentless need for peace, her gumption to keep starting over and over until she found where she belongs. My life full of peace, understanding, love, and acceptance, from every outlet- I owe it all to her.

Her hardships, and deprivation, disappointments, and betrayal, heartbreak, and misery- they were not all for nothing.

SJK

The best part of my day is waking up enveloped in the safety of your love. Tucked in the bed we share, in the home we built, as the first beams of sunbreak spread across the forest, and the pines turn golden, only for a few minutes.

The second-best part of my day is knowing that I’m safe, secure, loved, seen, heard, and understood. I get to have a beautiful past, present, and future with you by my side the whole way through. There’s nothing we haven’t done, nothing we can’t do. Everything is possible.

The third-best part of my day is existing with you in this beautiful forest we call home. The forest that each of us chose to end up in, by chance, at the same exact time in our travels. Year after year, inching closer to each other, learning separate life lessons, that would one day set us up for the fairytale life we’d each dreamed of.

The fourth-best part of my day is being able to be a child with you; A couple of goofy grown-up kids working their asses off for the life they’ve always wanted. Running a beautiful household together, harvesting a healthy garden, and taking care of all these fucking animals.

The fifth-best part of my day is coming home to you, my best friend, my favorite human, my trusted confidant. Coming home to a beautiful life we’ve chosen to build with, for, and around each other. Crawling into bed at the end of another day with each other, exactly where we belong.

Two strangers having dinner, to two lovers planning a future we once thought was too far-fetched to be possible. Meeting you was the best part of my Spring, falling in love with you was the best part of my Summer. Spending each day with you is the best part of my Forever.