Coming Home

Does a butterfly ever long for her cocoon?

Hello,

To all who read my writing—thank you, I appreciate each and everyone of you so much. It has been a while since I last sent something out through this platform. I have been met with many emotions since returning from the Pacific Crest Trail. It was a bigger journey than I anticipated. Being in the mountains for such an extended period of time filled my heart to the brim. Below is my reflection of the return home, along with photos from the trail. Above is a voiceover in case listening is more accessible than reading.

With Love and Gratitude,

Shanga

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It has been nearly two months now since I hit the Canadian border and ended my summer-turned-fall of hiking. In the preparation process for this journey, I was told by multiple people that post-trail grief is something to be aware of. I, of course, was too excited to be able to realistically conceptualize any sort of melancholic future. In my head, this hike was the answer to…everything. But as tends to happen, time has humbled me. Between June and October, the months of beginnings and endings; all my questions really were answered–in a way. That is part of the magic of being untethered; free to explore authentically and without constraints each day. But alas, new questions are infinite and maybe some old questions continue to find their way back into the mix. Between the months of June and October I felt fear, I faced fear, and I met courage. Snow melted, flowers grew, fruits fell to the earth, stars shot across the sky, wishes were made, my heart was broken, my trust was robbed, my body changed, the trees changed, I cried, I bled, I fell in love, and I celebrated the completion of my twenty sixth year in this body. At some point during these months, I slipped from my early twenties into my late twenties. I moved from an age of questioning to a summer of remembering and now to this liminal space of: what’s next?

I think it is somewhat comforting to know that my experience is not completely unique. We all have different ways of describing this phenomenon that occurs when we return from an expansive journey only to collapse into the cocoon of our beds wanting nothing more than to be held and simultaneously left alone. Gage told me it’s post-trip depression, my mom once called it the travel blues, Jules lovingly listens to me cry on the phone and I can feel how strongly she empathizes. When we go out into the world, having these deeply moving experiences with not only ourselves but complete strangers, our hearts expand. At least that is what happened for me. The door of my heart seemed to grow and grow; fed by stranger’s acts of kindness, fed by the pride in my own steady resilience, fed by the infinite love that breathes in and out all around us every single day. And each time something happened that hurt my heart along the way, I worried that the door would close. I did not want the door to close, because the thought of that scared me much more than any pain I’ve yet to feel. So I kept the door of my heart open, and allowed not only the loving miracles but also the painful wounds to come through and plant themselves as new seeds of me.

Now that I am home, I feel that I am re-weaving a familiar cocoon. This was not intentional. I actually felt deeply opposed to my hermiting tendencies when I first landed back in my nest. However, I am coming to recognize that it is from a deeply intelligent part of me that has nothing at all to do with my brain or decision-making abilities. There is a protecting force within that has a desire to nurture the open-hearted wanderer that received such a vast library of new memories over the past six months. At what feels like a snail’s pace, the poignant memories are presenting themselves. Some of them I hold to my chest and dance around the room as if it is a cherished present I’ve just unwrapped on the morning of my birthday. Some of them make me burst out laughing while I’m driving home late at night from dance class. And some of them leave me with a heavy heartbeat and a lump in my throat. I have come to realize that resisting this natural cocooning process only pushes it further down my timeline. Eventually, we all must turn inwards. So I give myself permission to turn to my cocoon for safety, protection, and a space to process.

It’s sometimes confusing because I love to think about life in metaphors and symbols. It doesn’t make sense to build a cocoon that I’ve already been in. To my understanding, when the caterpillar emerges from the cocoon as a butterfly, that is the end of the story. The butterfly doesn’t just decide one day “okay guys, see ya in another three weeks because I’m feeling called back to my cocoon”. So, and I know this is somewhat ridiculous, but I have to remind myself that I’m not actually a butterfly and this period of time is not really a cocoon. I am human and this period of time is the answer to the question: what’s next?