Reader,
From one sunset to another. Another year around the sun.
I turned 37 three days ago, in the South Chilcotin Mountains of British Columbia with 12 centimeters of snow on the ground, 1400 grams of pemmican in my pack as the only food source, and with no idea of what I was doing.
Nine days. No tent. No modern camping gear. Just a blanket pack and four other people who actually knew how to survive in the wild.
I was the new guy. The imposter. The one who didn't belong.
And it was my birthday.
For the last three years, I've spent my birthdays alone. Meditation retreats. Solo vision fasts.
Because my truth has been that while I love people, I need a lot of time away from them.
A lot.
I also have only recently started to do this birthday thing.
About a decade ago, I wrote something for the Huffington Post—young, arrogant, convinced I had it figured out. I said we were self-obsessed as a society, that we didn't need a day devoted to celebrating ourselves every year.
One of my old professors responded. He asked me to consider the possibility that maybe a birthday is just a day to pause and reflect and recalibrate. To bask in the glory of the Spirit that allowed me to experience this life.
I rejected that then. Too spiritual. Too sentimental.
I can see it now.
Because as I get older, life seems to move quicker. The moments I'm encountering seem more and more precious. And sometimes this life feels closer to an end than a beginning.
Two years ago, I spent six months not knowing if I'd survive kidney surgeries. That changes how you see everything. It cracks you open to the remembrance of grace. The remembrance that being alive—just being alive—is the miracle.
And that remembrance of grace came to me again this year in the wild.
The rain during our whole time was relentless. The kind that soaks through everything—your blanket, your bones, your resolve. Cold seeping in. Muscles tensing. Breath panicking.
Every day I watched these four hunters, these wilderness people who moved through this terrain like they were born to it, and every day I felt the gap between their experience and mine.
Every day I wanted to prove I belonged. That I could handle this. That I wasn't weak. That I knew which plants to eat and which animals we were tracking.
But, I felt my self-judgment every day. Not living up to the standard.
And then, on the fourth day, something shifted.
While I didn't have their ancestral skills, I realized I had something else: I could work with my mind. I could sit in the rain and not fracture. I could push through discomfort without breaking. While the rain meant we needed to hunker down many days, which was a horror thought for everyone else, I could be with myself with ease.
This knowing settled into my body—not in my head, but somewhere deeper. A recognition of my own medicine.
The settling in your own body of your essence.
On my last day out there, I saw a white mountain goat and a black raven. These two extremes. Shadow and light.
The teaching was immediate: there's power in being able to walk both paths. The wild and the domesticated. The darkness and the light. The mess and the mastery.
The good. The bad. The injustice. The empathy. The dark. The light.
There's so much for us to dip our toes into in this life.
This is the path of the expanded human—not choosing one or the other, but learning to traverse both.
Every evening, we'd gather around a small fire. The kind of fire you make from whatever you can scavenge in wet conditions. I got really good at building them—one skill I could actually contribute.
We'd sit in a circle, sharing what was moving through us.
Most of them spoke about their dislike for the modern world. Their longing for collapse. Their rejection of domestication.
And then it was my turn.
My heart was racing. The general vibe was clear, and what I wanted to say went against it. But I thought about those six months in hospital beds. The way mortality shifts everything. The remembrance of trust. The remembrance of love. The remembrance that life itself is the gift.
So I spoke about gratitude.
I'm grateful for having so much love that my head sometimes has a hard time taking it in. For so many teachers who have guided me. For the Great Mother who has shown me so much of her beauty. For my body that's allowed me to do so much—even when it's broken, even when it's struggling, even when it's shivering in the rain.
I spoke about being alive. About how I see the gift in being able to exist in both worlds—the wild and the modern. That maybe the work isn't to reject one for the other, but to learn to bring wildness into domestication and wisdom into wilderness.
It felt terrifying. Vulnerable. Exposed.
And then the elder said, "I really appreciate your perspective."
Warmth. Acknowledgment. The feeling of being seen not despite my difference, but because of it.
Here's what I know now that I didn't know when I went into those mountains:
You have to show up in your brokenness before you try to fix yourself.
We spend so much energy trying to have it together before we let anyone see us. Waiting until we're healed before we show up to community. Performing competence while dying inside.
But healing doesn't happen in isolation. It happens when we're seen in our mess. When we stop pretending we have the answers and start admitting we're still figuring it out.
Community is the greatest healing force we have.
Not because everyone agrees with us. Not because they make us feel comfortable. But because they see us—really see us—and don't turn away.
When we share ourselves, we break through our limited knowledge of who we think we are. We discover that our mess isn't shameful—it's medicine. That our vulnerability isn't weakness—it's the fucking breakthrough.
And we give others permission to show up messy too.
I, an insignificant cog in the grand scheme of the unfolding of this universe, get to witness the beauty of this epic human existence.
A life lived in so many fractions, on so many lands, connected with so many people, with the through line being a mystery.
So many twists and turns in this life, not one being a guaranteed step into anything known. But that's the magic of life—not knowing where it takes us in the moment but being along for the ride and to look back one day and say, "shit, I GOT to live THAT life."
And maybe a hint that maybe I'm not that insignificant after all.
How can we be when there's so much to see, hear, feel, and experience? When our willingness to be vulnerable shifts the collective field? When our mess becomes medicine for others?
I see this pattern everywhere in my work. People waiting to be "ready" before they speak their truth. Waiting to be "healed" before they show up to community. Waiting to be "worthy" before they let themselves be seen.
But you're never ready. You're never fully healed. You're never worthy enough.
You just show up. Afraid. Imperfect. Still figuring it out.
And in that showing up—in that radical act of letting yourself be seen in your chaos—something shifts. Not just in you, but in the collective field.
Your willingness to be vulnerable gives others permission to stop performing.
Your willingness to share your truth, even when it goes against the grain, shows others they can too.
Your willingness to celebrate yourself, to say "I'm grateful I'm alive" even when the world feels heavy, reminds others that life itself is the miracle.
So here's what I'm asking you:
Where are you hiding?
What part of yourself are you waiting to "fix" before you let anyone see it?
What would it take for you to show up messy, afraid, imperfect—and trust that your vulnerability is exactly what the community needs?
You don't need to have your shit together. You don't need to wait until you're "ready."
You just need to show up. Be seen. Share your truth.
Even if your voice shakes. Even if it goes against the grain. Even if you're the new guy who doesn't know what he's doing.
Especially then.
Because that's when the healing happens. That's when the breakthrough comes.
Not in isolation. Not in perfection.
In community. In vulnerability. In the messy, beautiful act of being human together.
May we be with grace every moment like we are in the moments of awe.
Ish
P.S. I have 1 final spot with work with a man or woman for the rest of this year. If you have followed my work for a while, I invite you to go to my page and take a look and see if there's something that resonates.
Do you want to show up more authentically?
Do you want to love and be deeper more openly?
Do you want to learn how to lean into life deeper?
If you give me six months, I can help you.
But only if you are ready to help yourself.
🍵 x 🐉
