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How I Confronted My Fear on a Solo Camping Trip

To dig deeper into the self, to go underground, is usually mandatory, but so is the other route of getting out of your self, into the larger world, into the openness by which you need not clutch your story and your troubles so tightly to your chest.Rebecca Solnit

In those early years of self-discovery, between the time a social employee really helpful drug and alcohol remedy for Jonathon and the summer time of 2006 when I accomplished my degree in counselling psychology, our family was immersed within the therapeutic world.

We attended group household periods, private counselling appointments, and experiential workshops where we pounded mattresses to launch pent-up emotions and spent days in isolation to confront our deepest fears. I discovered there was nothing like a abandoned island to spotlight the profound abandonment and loneliness issues that haunted me.

An sudden adventure


Three days into a week-long workshop in Texas in June 2005, the facilitators awoke the six female members earlier than dawn, informed us to pack a modicum of things that didn’t embrace cell telephones or other electronics, loaded us into a small life raft, then ferried us out to a small island in the midst of Lake Texoma, a lake I’d frequented as a baby.

I stood on the seashore with my supplies—water, tarp, sleeping bag, journal—and watched the jet ski and empty raft shrink into the space. My internal chatter was incessant from the moment I set foot on the sand. You’re a fool. What the hell are you doing here? You’ll by no means get this proper. You’re alone. All the time alone. Never essential.

The mantra of alone taunted me as I stared out at the lake and realized I’d been left to figure issues out on my own. They’ve left you right here, you understand. You’ll never get anything proper. You gained’t survive. If I was alone, then why have been there so many voices yammering inside my head?

Lower than a mile from shore and the consolation of a warm mattress, I may as properly have been sitting on a volcanic speck in the midst of the Pacific Ocean. The sound of racing jet skis and motorboats punctuated the summer time air. We’d every been given a cordoned patch of land—maybe fifty ft square (or round 5 square metres)—to call house for I didn’t understand how long.

100 ft (about 30 metres) to the south of my campsite, I might see the edge of my good friend Lisa’s tarp if I tried, and directly to the north, I caught a glimpse of Laura’s white shirt. Our website boundaries have been marked with fluorescent orange tape, and we have been expressly forbidden from crossing them with our ft or our words. A brush-filled incline with scrubby crops rose to the east with extensive open water within the west.

I stood on the sand, wrapped in a rare second of silence that drowned out the chattering voices in my thoughts—until they began again.

Loser. Wimp. Fraud. You’re not necessary. It’s all a trick. They’ve left you here. You’ll starve to demise or die from the headache that’s little question a mind aneurysm waiting to burst.

I needed to scream, but that wasn’t ladylike. As an alternative, I struggled to connect my tarp to the strongest of the spindly bushes, however the damned plant bent and refused to hold the load of my tarp.

I needed to scream, however that wasn’t ladylike. As an alternative, I struggled to connect my tarp to the strongest of the spindly bushes, however the damned plant bent and refused to hold the load of my tarp. I failed, then whipped my head to the left and the proper, sure that the others have been spying on me and laughing their heads off at my expense.

Why didn’t I eat dinner final night time? There was no food in my small knapsack, no nourishment in my mind. Solely the nattering of a thousand years of conditioning. Be good. Get this right. This is a check and you’re failing. Have failed. Will all the time fail. You’re a horrible mom. A horrid, depraved failure of a lady. You possibly can’t even provide shelter for yourself, a lot less anybody else. Your son. Your daughter. Your husband. They’re not right here now. It’s only you, babe.

Solely me.

It seems that I was a formidable ally and advocate for myself. Despite the near manic speak in my head and my incessant have to all the time get issues proper, these qualities ended up being precisely what I wanted on that deserted island. I needed silence and time away from my day by day life to hear what that chatter was really telling me. I wanted to dig in and explore what I was truly afraid of so I might face those fears head on as an alternative of watching them lash out sideways.

After wallowing in my “poor me” angle for a while, I lastly found a twig robust sufficient to carry my tarp so I might have a square foot of shade. I plopped onto the bottom and opened the packet given to me by the facilitators. Homework.

Nice. Sarcasm reared her ugly head. Yay! Something to do so I don’t have to think about the warmth and the truth that I haven’t any food. Good women are proficient at homework.

36 hours of survival


Blue camping tarp in grass - The silence of going solo

I wrestle to convey all that transpired on that island in about 36 hours. Minutes passed like sluggish syrup as I lay underneath the shadow of my tarp with sweat pouring down my again. Biting flies. Sweltering warmth. A pounding headache that wouldn’t let up. Ambient island sounds. Distant laughter from enjoying youngsters and beer-drinking adults. Hunger. Panic that I would starve. Information that there was no approach that would occur.

I raged at the audacity that I’d truly paid cash to be there. I dug into my homework, complying with the principles and putting words to my biggest fears. I adopted the directions and completed the requisite worksheets with their probing questions.

My FEAR …

How has this FEAR controlled my life?

How does holding on to this FEAR maintain me from LOVE?

If I changed my thoughts about this FEAR, what would I consider?

If I modified my mind about this FEAR, how would that have an effect on my life?

I crammed out one sheet after another. Three in the morning. Three in the afternoon. Three in the night. All through the day, I watched the fears loosen their hold on my mind, and then I grabbed them back like a toxic lifeline. What if I’m improper? Might I actually flip into my mother? Lose my mind? I am a lonesome loser. Nobody loves me. My God, my God, why have you ever forsaken me?

I wrote like a maniac, sweat pouring down my face and spine. I raged that I had no selection. I was caught, persecuted, put upon. I blamed the facilitators for tricking me and leaving me there. I cursed my son for getting me into that outrageous state of affairs within the first place. I whined about my mother and her sarcastic methods. I cried as a result of my father left me. I questioned why my husband—who’d completed this similar workshop two weeks before—hadn’t warned me about this half.

I crawled out from underneath the oppressive heat of the plastic tarp that drooped 10 inches (about 25 centimetres) from my face. I put down my pen and stared at the water. A breeze wafted throughout my sweaty skin like a whisper.

I considered my fears and miracles that recommend issues can change. I questioned what evidence I had that miraclesnever happen. I had none. No evidence apart from my shitty angle. I pondered the worry of nothing miraculous occurring on the island. I thought-about how my striving to seek out something meaningful stored me from experiencing the sweetness round me. If I modified my thoughts about making issues happen, what may I consider?

Scorching, sweaty, cranky, hungry, smelly and pissed off on the world, I stared at the water and thought of getting in to cool off. Then I talked myself out of it because I didn’t have a towel. It was 100 degrees [Fahrenheit] and I was apprehensive about a frickin’ towel?

I tried once more to get indignant on the facilitators because they didn’t inform me to convey one. I couldn’t muster the power. It wasn’t their fault. I was a huge woman. I might make my very own selections.

A religious awakening?


Book and driftwood lying on sandy beach - The silence of going solo

I walked to the water and dug my toes into the moist sand and pebbles. Cool aid moved by way of my ft, up my legs and into my angle. I took another step and then yet one more until the water rose to my knees. It felt like butterfly kisses and angel wings.

A flash of worry about moist clothes screeched via my thoughts. I waved it away like a pesky fly, bent my knees and plopped down into the lake. A giggle, the first in what felt like years, escaped my lips. My fears began to scrub away. Who cares what others assume? My garments will dry! That is heaven. A faculty of inch-long silvery fish swirled around my toes. More giggles escaped my lips. Oh sweet Jesus. This is a miracle!

An ant chomped on my massive toe. My bladder shouted that I needed to pee. The afternoon heat and my monkey mind began to soak up any sanity I had gained in the water.

I played in the water till my fingers resembled prunes. I climbed onto the sand, turned into an outsized T-shirt, and let my clothes dry in the solar. An ant chomped on my massive toe. My bladder shouted that I wanted to pee. The afternoon warmth and my monkey mind started to absorb any sanity I had gained in the water.

I’m a sluggish learner. Lessons have to be repeated time and again to loosen the grasp of cussed and ingrained patterns of considering and behaviour. I began shutting down. This was not the religious awakening I’d hoped for. I was coated in sand and flies stored biting my naked skin. My head still harm, my stomach was empty and I couldn’t fathom that I had chosen to be there. I was counting on my life being totally different, but why the incessant torture? Certainly, I might do with out it—or might I?

Day become evening and the setting sun lowered in the summertime sky. Two fishing boats pulled up close to shore and bass music blasted from a stereo. I questioned what the boaters may take into consideration the six solitary ladies lined up alongside the shore.

I imagined they thought we have been all nuts, however I didn’t care. A bit of bit loopy is OK by me. I calmed as the temperature dropped. The flies lessened their bites, however I stored anticipating the mosquitoes to return out as soon as the sun went behind the horizon. I turned absorbed within the textures of the solar, spherical like a ball, crimson, robust and beautiful. I caught a glimpse of one of the ladies down the seashore, watching the lads in the boats. I was comforted by her presence.

I pondered my fears. I wasn’t afraid of sleeping alone on the sand. It felt protected. What if we had to spend one other entire day solo? After shifting past the lethargic and out-of-control emotions of the noon warmth, I’d liked sitting within the water and watching the fish leap throughout me. I observed a diving hen decide a small perch out of the water and three beautiful white cranes standing in the shallows.

I realized that I feared the light would fade earlier than I finished writing in my journal. The enormity of the assertion lodged in my chest. I feared I would lose my mild. I turned the notion over in my thoughts. I considered my daughter and prayed the sunshine didn’t fade from her eyes. I apprehensive that Jonathon’s mild may by no means reignite.

I breathed into the discomfort. I stopped, paused and maybe I prayed. Prayer felt totally different on the island than it did a day or two earlier than. The cicadas began to sing. The sun dipped into the water. I turned away from my fears, crawled into my sleeping bag and drifted into an exhausted slumber.

Front cover of SoulStroller book - The silence of going soloKayce Stevens Hughlett is a tender, a healer and an artist of being alive who believes in on a regular basis magic and that complicated points typically name for easy practices. She holds a Masters in Counseling Psychology from The Seattle Faculty of Theology and Psychology and she or he is a Licensed Martha Beck Life Coach. Her novel Blue gained the Chanti Award for greatest ladies’s fiction in 2015. Kayce started her working life as an accountant for a multinational firm and transitioned to the therapeutic arts when life’s harsh circumstances despatched her looking for solutions on a much less linear path. She is the co-creator of SoulStrolling® ~ a motion for mindfulness in motion. Raised within the heartland of Oklahoma, she now resides in Seattle, Washington (U.S.) together with her family and muse, Aslan the Cat.


Reproduced with permission from Kayce Stevens Hughlett and WriteLife Publishing.

picture 1: John Purget; image 2: Pexels; image three: Pixabay