An invitation

In which we look for unicorns, temporarily abandon our dreams, and then find each other and ourselves

Fresco by Domenichino, c. 1604–05 (Palazzo Farnese, Rome) Source: Wikimedia Commons

What was one thing you wished for more than anything else when you were a kid?

I wished for unicorns. 

… and dragons. 

… and faeries.

As a kid with a love of fantasy stories and a runaway imagination, I had little trouble believing in the impossible. There were days when it seemed completely plausible that I might wake up to find a unicorn grazing in my backyard.

When I was young enough to still be spending most of my days playing outside, but old enough to understand the truth about Santa Claus, my desire to encounter the mythical sat in my chest like a small stone made of grief and longing. I hunted in the woods around my house for signs of unicorn habitation — the scent of lilacs in winter, tufts of white fur snagged in brambles. I tucked notes into door-shaped openings at the base of old oak and beech trees, entreating the fair folk (whom I was sure lived there) to reveal themselves. And, at the beach, my eyes strayed often to the sun-warmed sand pockets at the base of each dune, hoping to spy a clutch of fire lizard eggs. #IYKYK

My endless seeking was not the result of prolonged naïveté. It grew instead from a fierce desire for there to be magic in the real world as well as in the pages of the books I loved so much. It reflected my own inner wilderness — a place full of dark forests, strange beasts, and old stories. A place that called to me like a long-lost home I could never return to.

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In the fifth grade I wrote an essay about what I later came to think of as my “Why Complex.” In this extremely premature manifesto, I questioned why everyone felt compelled to follow the same traditional path: go to college, get a job, get married, buy a house, get a dog, have 2.5 children, get a better job, retire … die. I questioned why our worthiness is so often tied to the job we have, our bank account balance, or the car we drive rather than on what’s in our hearts.

I lived in a town of only thirteen thousand people. The internet didn’t exist. My world was small, so I didn’t realize that plenty of people were choosing roads less traveled. I only knew what I saw around me. And mostly what I saw was a lot of people who didn’t see any need to question The Way Things Were. 

I wanted to question everything. 

But I did so only on the pages of my private diaries and journals.

For years and years, I wrote countless variations on the themes of wanting to break free, to do things differently, take bigger chances, embrace my dreams, and reclaim my magic. 

In real life, I wrapped my self doubt and uncertainty around me, feigned confidence I didn’t feel, and hopped in a boat with no oars to drift along in the current of least resistance. 

After a while, it became a little painful to remember what my dreams had been. 

After a little while longer, it became almost impossible to believe I’d ever thought those dreams could come true. 

What did you dream for yourself before the world wore you down around the edges?

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For several decades I spent very little time in my inner wilderness. Life was very busy. I had just wrapped up my freshman year of college, and I wasn’t going back. Suddenly I was learning to be an adult — working my first full-time job, and mostly just trying to stay afloat. Years passed. I got married. We got better jobs, we bought a house, we got a dog, we had a baby. It barely registered that my feet had accidentally wound up on the traditional path my younger self had questioned so passionately. It just … happened. 

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And then, I started to go off script. 

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There is much more to the story — twists and turns and doubling back — but that can wait. For now, it’s enough to say that I’ve learned my story is not an uncommon one. In fact, if you’re still reading, I’m guessing that you’ve experienced something similar. And that’s good, because ultimately, this newsletter isn’t about me. It’s about you. 

I am here because I believe taking the time to get to know yourself is the best way to make the world a better place. 

You have to know yourself to be yourself. 

You have to be yourself to do your thing. 

And doing your thing is what makes you happy, and also how you share your unique gift with the world. 

Bonus: the world is better with your gift in it.  

Know yourself. Be yourself. Do your thing. 

Maybe save the world.

That’s what Inner Wilderness Unlimited is all about.

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This isn’t a self-help newsletter. It’s not about self improvement or life hacking or leveling up. I am no guru. In fact, part of the reason I started this project is that I’m feeling a little lost myself, and one of the best ways I’ve found to figure things out is to write about them. 

This is an invitation to retrieve the pieces of yourself that you’ve lost along the way so that you can understand what truly brings you happiness, fulfillment, connection, and abundance.

In his book, Embers, Richard Wagamese writes: 

“Nothing ever grew from the outside in.”

Think about it. It’s a good one.

I still believe in unicorns. And I still believe in my dreams. 

Exploring the inner wilderness may be a mostly solitary endeavor, but that doesn’t mean we have to do it alone. I look forward to journeying side-by-side as fellow travelers on their way home to themselves.

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