The only way out is through

Hi beautiful, awesome peeps!

Happy spring equinox (the flowers are so beautiful this time of the year) and happy eclispe season! gulps lol astrologically, we are in between the lunar eclipse, March 25, and the solar eclipse coming up on April 8. With all eclipses, something ends and something else begins. How are you feeling?

To be honest, this eclispe season has got me all types of fucked up. I’ve been doing a lot of purging and releasing: my dreams have been so intense I wake up crying, my vessel is exhausted, and LA’s rainiest season has me feeling pale and sad. Womp, womp.

For that reason, I decided not to write about something so heavy for April. I wanted to embody the season of renewal, purification, and blessings that spring is. So this month’s story is a bit more light and fresh and also speaks to a little bit of my work as a life coach! If you didn’t know, it’s officially been over three years(!!) since I quit my job as a YouTuber/influencer to do something more soul-filling like coaching. It’s been a wild ride and the biggest honor of my life— to say the least.

Since there isn’t anything too traumatic or overly personal like in my previous stories, I also am gifting it free to all my subscribers! Yay, no paywall. Also just as a general thank-you for being a subscriber, paid or non-paid. Though I do hope you upgrade eventually just because the exclusive stories are bangers. If I do say so myself hehe.

Alright, enjoy!!!!!!!
Mucho luv and hugs,
Amy

Word count: 3,486
Pages: 5

The Only Way Out is Through by Amy Lee

“You can’t stop the waves, but you can learn to swim.”

— Jon Kabat-Zinn

It is just after 5pm on a Sunday at the end of May, and the air is hot and humid. The sun’s rays are beaming at an angle, slowly beginning its descent, and the ocean’s water is glittering, the clouds dispersed throughout burnt orange and reddish skies. It’s gorgeous, some women are strolling the shore topless, while my own feet are sinking deeper into the moist sand. 

There’s a general sense of relief in the air between me and my three, newly-made, friends. After a rather long day of traveling, from what was supposed to be quick 1.5 hour flight (many delays) from Mexico City to another two-hour drive smushed altogether in the back of a taxi with our broken Spanglish in tow, we’ve finally arrived to our destination of Mazunte Beach. 

Mazunte is a small coastal town in the state of Oaxaca in southern Mexico. It’s got a sleepy beach town vibe to it, without strong WiFi and only two ATMs to be found (so you’d better come with some cash), and my friends tell me they decided to come here amongst the plethora of Mexico’s beach towns because Mazunte is particularly known for not having a loud, party scene like the others. Instead, it’s known more as a spiritual getaway for bohemian expats with offerings of sound baths, ecstatic dance, and sunrise yoga. The party scene is essentially non-existent. Which is exactly why someone like me, who is in bed by 9pm and doesn’t drink, decided to come along. A beautiful beach without frozen cocktails, loud techno music or creepy American frat boys? Count me in.

After a quick check-in at our hotel, which feels more similar to a quaint bed-and-breakfast, we drop off our stuff, hastily throw on our bikinis, and walk down to the local beach in less than five minutes. A certain sense of magic permeates the air in Mazunte that I’ve read about from tourists’ or travel bloggers’ websites prior to coming, but there’s a particular sense of magic, for me.

As a newly certified, transformational life coach, having only been in business for the last six months, I’ve befriended a couple of clients, post-working together when our contract ends. Alicia* is one of them, and when we discover that we’re both visiting Mexico at the same time by some happy coincidence, she graciously invites me to a trip to Mazunte with two of her closest girl friends for a week. Though I’ve been no stranger to traveling with, well, essentially strangers in the past (I’ve been to Amsterdam and Paris with people I just met for the second time), I’d spent the last two years certainly neither traveling nor socializing in general with my own friends, let alone with new people, due to the COVID pandemic and its aftermath. So you can imagine the obvious apprehension or anxiety about saying yes. 

But as soon as I had felt my anxiety about to spin its wheel of nonsensical worries, prompting me to politely decline the invitation, I decided to instead dive into a quick research hole about the town, and what did I find Mazunte to be most known for, on the town’s homepage? Sea turtles. Why is this important? Turtles, in general, but more specifically, sea turtles, are my sign from the Universe! This synchronicity was a little wink or nod from the Universe to let me know I was on the right path, aka go.

So there I was, on that beach at 5pm, with three strangers. 

And as anyone who has traveled to Mazunte would know, all the gift shops and restaurants and food stands from menus to outside decor, are littered with sea turtle motifs, from stickers to crochet figurines to patches on totes. Even giant sea turtle murals grace the town’s walls. Within that five minute walk to the beach, I quickly found myself to be in, quite literally, the land of sea turtles. “Yes, you were meant to come,” the Universe seemed to be flirting with me, sea turtle after sea turtle. Chills ran all throughout my body.

“Come on, Amy, let’s go in!” The two other girls begin to strip and then run straight towards the waves. I follow their lead, galloping in the wind to the scintillating seashore. Proudly identifying as part fish and as part human since I was a little girl, swimming neck deep in the ocean is where I feel the most at home and at peace. Not often granted this privilege back at home in Los Angeles due to the cold, murky waters, I try to take up this opportunity any chance I get.

Though it had been two years or so since I had socialized with new people, I realized standing at the shoreline that it had even been longer that I had swam in the ocean at all. This fact, alone, made the chance to swim in clear, warm waters even more exhilarating, but as I watched the other girls skip into the waves much further ahead already halfway into its deepest parts, I hesitated for a moment. It was this exact moment where I went wrong. In that split second, I began to overthink my descent into my lovely friend’s beautiful depths, the ocean, who never let me down once in her ability to cleanse all my anxiety and purify that which could not be on land. I had swum in the deepest parts of the ocean in Thailand, Vietnam, Hawaii, and more and never felt betrayed by her perceived perils.

One thing about Mazunte is that the waves are as intense as the Mexican sun, and do you know how intense the Mexican sun is? (On one of my first trips to Oaxaca many years ago, I wrote in my journal: “Perhaps the Mexican sun radiates so much warmth to reflect that of their people.”) Still, there were plenty of travelers swimming neck deep in the ocean, past the roaring waves. Any seasoned swimmer, which I was, was able to make it through safely. But it was too late— I had already begun second guessing myself. The fear had infiltrated my ability to effortlessly and strategically enter the ocean. I was now fearful to go through the waves. 

It’s alright. I’ll j-just hop over them, I think to myself. 

My second mistake.

This method proves to work well for the initial baby waves, of course, as I’m able to keep my head out of water, dashing through them, so I can safely see where I am at. Then it begins to work less and less for the medium-sized waves. I get my head splashed and slammed a few times by the waves, pushing sand into my ears and nostrils but still, I am able to make it further. I only have to make it over the last few largest waves before I am out into the peaceful, calm waters, where the two other girls already are, floating on their backs in that blissful way I so desperately want to, too. 

Then it happens. I blink and suddenly, I look up to a monstrosity. The largest wave comes hurling so quickly, twice the height of the previous waves, that I don’t have much time to think about if this current method will still work and so, in panic, I just do it anyway. I try to push off the ocean’s floor with my feet to get some height through the biggest wave so my head can stay dry, but that is impossible, as my feet can no longer touch the sandy floor. The giant wave comes rolling with such speed I inevitably get swallowed whole into it and tumble in its ferocious spin like a raggedy, old towel in the most state-of-the-art of washing machines.

I have never been afraid of the ocean. But I can presume those who are afraid, are terrified due exact instances like these. 

In that moment, I don’t know which way is up or down, and because the wave is so huge and therefore takes a longer time to minimize in size, I drown a bit, intaking salt water in what feels like all of my pores. Admittedly, in retrospect, the drowning was largely in part due to my panic— I was just freaking the fuck out, I could’ve just held my breath a bit longer. Eventually, I get spit out onto the shore, topless, with my bikini top wrapped around my head, coughing and hacking up salt water, my bikini bottoms sandwiched so far up my buttocks, the wedgie actually hurts. Quickly, I fasten the top back onto my chest before anyone sees, but literally not a single soul is watching or cares. Like a washed-up abandoned mermaid on the shore, I’m in disarray: what the hell just happened? Where am I? What’s my name? Hair tangled all over my face like a net.

My two friends look back at me on the shore, as it’s obvious that I’m coughing, and though it’s hard to make out their facial expressions so far away, I can sense that they are looking back with a quizzical concern, wondering what happened when I was just a few feet away from splishy-splashing with them. I am embarrassed and also freaked out, because this has never happened to me before. As I’m sitting on the shoreline, I start to wonder: how did they, and everyone else, get so swiftly into the water? What did I do wrong? I look back behind me at our other dry friend, who is calmly lying on our towels soaking in the sun, and tell myself: you can always sit this one out and just tan with her.

My inner mermaid/fish child pouts, no! That’s boring! We never do that! What did we come all this way for? 

I tell myself, okay, there’s no rush to get back into the water but we’re going back into the water. As I pull out the intense wedgie and wash away the excess sand in between my crevices, I sit patiently and assess new swimmers entering and their methods. I notice how everyone swims under and through the waves, even the medium-sized ones. They even clasp their hands together and dive confidently and then pop out on the other side miraculously unscathed, quite like an actual fish. They do not hesitate about their ability to swim through. They are not jumping over, or dashing through, they are going full head underwater from the beginning. 

As my breathing returns to normal and my anxiety dissipates, I start to remember that’s how I’ve always done it too. The only way out is through. That makes sense.

Then why didn’t you do that in the first place? I ask myself.

I sit there and think. 

Fear. It’s because I’m scared to put my head underwater. I don’t trust that I’ll make it through the other side safely. I want to keep my head out of the water, so I can see.

You think being able to see is what will keep you safe, but that’s actually what made you drown. You can’t just jump over these giant waves, that’s not humanly possible. You just have to go under and through. You know how to swim. You have to trust.

Ah, fuck.

At this point, the worst has already happened, so what else have I got to lose? And oddly enough, when something proves to be more challenging, it only fuels me more to then get my desired outcome. I ain’t no quitter! Therefore, I stand up, dust my hands off, and make my way back to the waves, with a new strategy. I hold my breath and clasp my hands together and dive under the waves, my world going pitch black, but not in the way it had before in my previous, vicious spin cycle. It’s peaceful and smooth and fluid. My head pops out the other side, bikini all in tact. Hair washed back and out of my face. 

That was nice. 

I keep with this method, which unsurprisingly allows me to move with twice the amount of speed, finally landing at the largest set of waves. The last wave towers over me in height, having increased due to higher tides as the sun increasingly sets, but I know I can do this, it’s the same thing, just a bigger wave. I hold my breath and stay calm. I trust. 

I dive under the last giant wave.

And what do you know? Like a beautiful mermaid who has swam decades in the depths of her longest companion and home, I return to myself and find myself to be finally splishy-splashing alongside my two girl friends, neck deep in the ocean. They don’t ask what took me so long— for a while, we just float in silence. The sky is painted sorbet orange, with streaks of darkish reds and yellows. The water is calm and serene, with breathtaking views of the cliffs and green hills. I remember instantaneously why life is worth living. 

This is why I had to get back into the water. 

This is what I came all this way for.

Such a metaphor for life, I flutter my feet to stay further afloat. A metaphor for our healing journey and the return to ourselves.

You see, when so many of my clients come to first see me, they are in pursuit of wholeness and joy, with the baseline often being their current state of perceived broken-ness and depression and anxiety. They’re standing on the metaphorical shoreline, wanting to get wet, but unsure and fearful of how to. One of the main things I begin with is cultivating and harnessing their ability to move through, not over or around, painful emotions. 

During our first session, I equip them with a feelings wheel (to be used at every session) to get connected with the seemingly simple yet arduous task of just being able to identify their feelings, as trauma can keep a person heavily disassociated from even being able to do so. “I don’t know what I feel,” I often hear. Feelings wheel! I command. Identifying our feelings can also help to process and then dissipate the feeling more quickly. (Additionally, if we’re going swimming neck deep in the ocean, “good” or “bad” isn’t just going to cut it, y’all.)

Then next, I pull up a graphic of the scale of vibrational frequencies of emotions. All emotions possess a vibrational frequency that influence our well-being and the world around us, whether they are high or low. This graphic depicts how emotions like shame, guilt, and apathy are some of the lowest vibrational frequencies, while peace, joy, love are some of the highest, in an upside down colorful cone, in an ascending manner.

I use this graphic to not only help my clients self-identify where they might be on the scale (often guilt and shame), but also to show them the only way to the proverbial “other side,” to joy, to love, to enlightenment is by going through all the other emotions, such as grief, fear, and anger. Anger is an especially difficult one for many of my clients to go through, myself included. But I reiterate to them, if we want to feel love and joy, we must feel our pain. Brené Brown, an American professor and researcher whose works centers around shame and vulnerability, says: “we cannot selectively numb emotions, when we numb the painful ones, we also numb the positive emotions.” That is how depression forms.

Back in 2019, at 25 years old, when I finally decided I, too, wanted to get into the water, I sat there in therapy in one of my first few sessions and proclaimed vehemently after having given a cursory description of my, what would later be categorized as, extremely abusive relationship: “But I’m grateful for everything he did.” Even if I didn’t know what the hell I was actually grateful for. I probably read it in some spirituality book— that gratitude was the panacea for all. So I just claimed it. Another time, after having explained the dysfunctional complicated aspects of my relationship with my mother: “But I’m grateful for what she did. It taught me to become stronger.” “But I’m grateful!” I would practically howl on that stiff, gray couch. 

“You can’t be abused and hurt, and just go straight to gratitude,” Dr. Kim blinks her eyes, hands interlocked neatly on her lap. “Look, gratitude is important. But you can’t just jump to that part. That’s not how it works. You have to process all these other emotions. Have you ever heard of spiritual bypassing?” 

She explains spiritual bypassing is using spiritual concepts or principles to avoid addressing or processing unresolved issues or psychological wounds. And so, I immediately dropped the gratitude bullshit— she basically told me that I was trying to jump over the waves. It was no wonder that I had not seen much growth, incorrectly blanketing gratitude over my deepest and darkest traumas without fully processing any of the “low vibrational” emotions. A girl was getting slapped and slammed around, with sand all up in her ears!

Thus, I began the process of swimming under or through the waves with Dr. Kim’s guidance. I was mistrustful of course, that I’d be able to make it through, feeling like I just opened a thousand and one Pandora’s boxes: The first Mother’s Day I chose not to celebrate my mother, I spent the whole day crying on the couch, cursing the world. What good was all this “healing” if I was constantly consumed by all this sadness and newfound anger? For more than a year, I stayed angry and grieving about my childhood, deep cystic acne forming all over my face, as a physical manifestation. I wondered in my sorrows if these feelings would ever change. Would I be angry all the time? It felt so awful to be so angry. But Dr. Kim assured me that it would inevitably change. I wouldn’t stay there forever. I had to trust the process.

Like myself, I find that many of my clients wish to skip forward to gratitude. “If my dad didn’t beat me, I wouldn’t have the resilience I have today.” “If my mom wasn’t so harsh, I wouldn’t be so thick-skinned.” Each time, I hear some form of convoluted but kind attribution of our best traits to our abusers and trauma. I’m not there to argue if these statements are true, but I am there to guide walking through that fire to actual gratitude and peace. I may not able to swim through or under those waves for any one of them, but I am able to teach them the methods or the strategy, and am waiting for them neck deep in the ocean, to float on our backs together. Have you seen this incredible sorbet sky? I ask them once we’ve made it through— and through, and through. 

And just like the unpredictable ferocity of Mazunte’s waters, I remind them that often our pain and grief and anguish come in waves, too— some small, medium, and some gargantuan that just absolutely knock your bikini top off, having you disheveled and choking back on the shoreline. There’s no rush to get back in, but we’re getting back in, eventually, I counsel.

I understand it’s scary to feel that pain. It’s scary to swim through. It’s scary to trust. It’s scary because we feel that maybe we might drown and never find ourselves back to the top in that dark, dark abyss. But I promise you, as I do with all my clients, you do. 

You may want to keep your head above and out of the water, thinking it is some false sense of safety. But that’s what makes you really drown, stuck in a cycle (or in my case, a spin cycle). Pain travels through our lineage until someone is ready to finally feel it, which means a combination of lifetimes of ancestors either simply not getting wet (sad!) or getting slapped around with sand in their ears (a different type of painful). Life is not meant to be spent solely tanning on the sand, though at times, respite is needed, and it’s totally okay to do so. It’s always an option, we can take tanning breaks, I tell myself and my clients. 

But ultimately, your inner child knows that that illusion of safety is boring. They know that that’s not what you came all this way for— in life and at the beach. Our purpose in life is to live fully, to swim neck deep in the ocean, kick back our feet, and much of that comes from trusting you’ll make it through, unscathed, and trusting that you’ll know how to stay afloat, because the only way out, ever, is through.