Life After Mexico | Sarah Copeland
Today, I’m trying to wrap my head around life after Mexico, once the honeymoon phase ends. (As in, homework: how to keep that Mexico feeling alive).
This time, it wasn’t just about vacation vibes. On this trip, there was something….more. I felt good in my body — every day. Free, light, alive. There was much support for this, of course—warm ocean air, sunshine, balmy nights. There we had my parents and sister and husband (and the resort’s brilliant little explorer’s club) sharing time entertaining the kids. We had time to do yoga, stretch, and swim. We did saunas and cold plunges. And, every meal was provided for—no hunting or gathering, and positively no dishes—freeing up a lot of space for self-care in a way that’s not always realistic in real adult life.
But there were other things, too. Our days felt tactile and textured. And I felt a freeness of body and mind that I recognize most from childhood. It felt like the days would never end. And what’s more, (after studying Spanish most mornings for the last six weeks leading up to our trip)—my grade-school Spanish came back to me with alarming familiarity.
My brain, which I’d all but surrendered to the pandemic, is still supple and alive.
And if that’s true, what else could I do/learn in the next quarter of life?
On our last day, as my family shuffled around me with backpacks and boarding passes, I mustered the strength to resist the pull toward panic and busyness. Instead, I stood on the steps with a row of palm trees on either side, facing the ocean, and set an intention: before my next milestone birthday, I will spend 30 straight days in a place this beautiful and free. One month of endless ocean and movement and all things on a tortilla. One month of tropical fruit and sunshine and speaking a language other than English.
It sounds fancy, but really—out of the next five years, is 30 days of feeling free and genuinely alive a lot to ask?
Because while so much of our (school) year has been transitioning kids back and forth between two different worlds (we did a quarter in Hungary last fall, for those who are new here), and not without tremendous effort—it’s also taught me life can bend and snap back.
We were made to stretch and grow.
While chatting with several moms on the playground, back at school this week, I realized that we (people) often don’t plan our lives; our lives happen. It can happen quickly to any of us—even those who once had great agendas/goals.
We get a job, we get married, and the babies come. We get a better job (to pay for the babies), and after many (some happy, some hard) years like this, the babies move out.
Exciting things happen in the middle, of course: major life moments and career wins. We lose some people and gain others. We might meet a friend, or a great love, or a coach, or a therapist who changes the course of things, for a while. Sometimes we take a trip that changes our lives. But it can easily become monotonous in the middle, no?
The kids get older (less squishy and cute), the kitchen remodel gets dated, and before you know it, that beautiful boxwood hedge you planted when your kids were in diapers is overgrown and shaggy, sort of like us.
I realize I have no business calling our life shaggy, or monotonous. In the last six months, we’ve hiked in the hills of Hungary and dipped our toes into the seaside of Croatia, Slovenia, Italy–and now Mexico. I am speaking from a place of privilege. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that the in-between times have often felt confusing, like waiting for something big (er) to happen.
It turns out *the big thing* is a very quiet, slow thing. A slow unraveling of what it means to be thriving in life. An untangling of the meaning of success. It turns out *the big thing* is a very quiet, slow thing. A slow unraveling of what it means to be thriving in life. An untangling of the meaning of success.
Hungary and Mexico, in a dozen ways, are drastically different countries. But in all the important (to me) ways, they’re similar—the lifestyle, the challenges, the gifts. And almost everyone I’ve spent time with in either place defines success in a similar way: a little land, a plate of good food, good health, and family time (with an occasional party or two thrown in) go a long, long way toward making life feel full and joyful. Whole.
Hungary and Mexico back-to-back have rewired my thinking about what it means to be LIVING. They’ve reminded me: you’re allowed to want things that aren’t just stability or meeting your deadlines or even publishing a book (a big exciting thing—or just another thing—depending on what stage of life you’re in).
You’re allowed to seek adventure. Or feeling You’re allowed to seek adventure. Or feeling really good in your body. Or prioritizing something as simple as creating daily meals that are fresh, inspiring, and a little spicy.
Not in every season and every moment of life can these things be number one, of course. There are realities, responsibilities, and bills—yes. Not in every season and every moment of life can these things be number one, of course. There are realities, responsibilities, and bills—yes.
But the hamster wheel, friends (whether your hamster wheel is a big house, a fancy job, the buzziest social media account, or the elite school for your kid) were not meant for us.
These were always my deeply held beliefs—beliefs that got buried in survival during the pandemic, and in the gratitude of coming out the other end alive and resourced. They were lost in the These were always my deeply held beliefs—beliefs that got buried in survival during the pandemic, and in the gratitude of coming out the other end alive and resourced. They were lost in the what’s next conversations of how we (working mothers) are all really doing post-pandemic (not that great).
But I’m finding my way back to them, back to bigger, freer dreams.
These dreams might look different from what people (my agent, parents, even my spouse or kids) might expect from me. Dreams that bring back that far-off dreamy spark of childhood, the hope and possibility of a world beyond the now.
These things speak of what Brené Brown would call wholehearted living (read her ten guideposts, they’re great). They speak of community and togetherness. Of oneness with nature and animals. Of a wholeness that I think is within reach for all of us. They speak to what writer/musician/mother Alexis Wilding calls The Purple Lady * and Being Free.
I didn’t have a moment to talk to you about Easter and Passover and the solstice before my trip, but Spring, and the holidays she holds, are about rebirth and renewal. So today, I’m asking you to try something new. Instead of talking about what’s for dinner tonight, dear people, write a comment here for you—for us: tell us one new thing you’re trying this spring. One dream you’re pursuing. A sign of rebirth or new life, of possibility.
One step toward the freest, most whole you.
The Purple Lady & Being Free (Alexis Wilding)
Years ago I went to a swimming hole in NJ with friends. We passed a purple house, a cupcake Victorian painted purple and lilac, and basically every purple you can imagine. At the hole, I lay in a lawn chair and lazily watched the Purple Lady sun herself. She was old, her hair was lavender, her suit, caftan, sun hat, all of it, violets and plums and amethyst. She must have walked over from her house, or maybe driven the purple VW bug parked by the picnic tables. I had never seen such a serene person. When she got up to swim, her old crinkled thighs moved with the wind, as did her ancient arms and lilac hair. We all swam together, her, me, my friend Tim who later said, “She’s free.”
Things have felt hard lately. And when I struggle I think of the Purple Lady. How to get there from here? I used to think she gave zero fucks but I realize now she gave enough fucks to make her life exactly as she wanted it. I’ve been in a mini-crisis loop since the fall. Surgeries, rehabilitation, the kids are always sick, the days are ever-shrinking, abandoned offices, projects, dreams, plans. No big emergencies but I can’t seem to get things right. I’ve struggled to fit myself into these shrinking days that feel like infinity. How am I already in the car to get the boys, I ask the purple mountains. Where did the day go? Why can I not seem to call a friend?
When Lou got his ear pierced last week, I eyed an infinity bracelet. They put it on you and it doesn’t come off. I was both intrigued and horrified at the prospect. The days have felt like endless loops, infinity jewelry. I’ve cocooned, some days I don’t know what to say! Those days I remember the Purple Lady. I remember swimming at her crooked feet, circles of devotion, infinity. Nothing lasts forever. Keep going. You, too, are free.
