Category: Travel

Local Travel, World Travel, Travel in the Southwest, National Parks, Utah, California, Washington DC. The United States

The Heather B. Hamilton Armstrong, a.k.a. Dooce, that I once knew

by BethTravel

TW: suicide, mental illness, mommy blogs 

Please know as I process, I am mindful of Heather’s children. I’m not sure these words will ever cross their path. I am also a mom and want to show compassion for their mother. This is a post I never wanted to write. I thought by the time we were old, we would have worked this shit out. God, how I wish I could say these things to her face.

Heather and I were journal writers and record keepers. For me, this document is important. I cared deeply about her, even until the end. When things were good and when she was on, I could be my completely unfiltered self. Our relationship was amazing. Our banter, gossip and deep conversations, inside jokes and eye rolls were a delicious treat. It often seemed no one understood me like she did. Making people feel seen was her gift. I miss it.

I believe the Heather B. Hamilton Armstong that I knew is the Heather the internet fell in love with. Her life was a Shakespearean play, with a little of The Taming of the Shrew and mostly Macbeth. Her life ended abruptly as a result of heartbreaking tragedy as a result of her Sisyphean struggle with mental illness. 

At one time, and for quite some time, Heather and I were very best friends. Then we weren’t. 

May 10, 2023, I received a text from my friend Sarah, with a link to an Instagram post: “I assume you saw this but just in case.” As the world was learning, I also learned that Heather B. Hamilton (Armstrong) died by suicide.

Tears streamed down my face. I did not know I was crying. Words came out of my mouth. I couldn’t understand what I was saying. My hand picked up my phone and my fingers began texting; words missing words and incomplete sentences. It felt like my fingers, my words, my tears were already grieving something my brain was not ready to process. 

“Oh Heather.” I said out loud. For her, for her children, my heart broke.

…Salt Lake City is a small town. Heather and I lived near each other for more than a decade. I honestly believed we would run into each other at the grocery store. I hope we would make peace. We never did.

All these years later, she seemed broken, unwell, isolated and stridently enabled. By the end, and from the casual observer, it seemed her current boyfriend had built a firewall between her and the rest of the world. I wonder if he loved her or was more enamored with the status she provided him. I hope he loved her. I will never know. What I do know is something my husband, Dave, shared. In a loving tone he said, “She still has it. Her writing is so good. I am just sorry she felt so desperately lonely…We were just down the street.”

As I reflect, I ache. The last words I spoke to Heather were, “fine, you fucking whore.” I hung up the phone. We never spoke again. I always believed we would. 

My sons were six and four. I vividly remember our conversation. I can see my sons’ tiny, desperate faces as they urgently clung to my legs: “Mommy, why is that lady screaming at you? Why is she calling you embarrassment? What does embarrassment mean? Mommy, please don’t cry.” Terrified, my sons began to sob. Heather’s shrieks stole the oxygen. I could not speak. I was shaking. I was shook. I was afraid. I could not get a hold of Dave. So I called my Mormon bishop, even though I didn’t go to church. He was also my friend. I wailed. Between gasps and heaves, I told him what had happened. I don’t know why. 

At that moment, I was a wobbly shadow of myself. Looking back, I wish I could have done it better. I wish I had held my boundaries or had more compassion or both. I also wish that in that moment I had the wherewithal to forgive both of us. We were both dealing with our own shit and traumas. Mostly, I wish I understood that what was going on with Heather had nothing to do with me. I did not understand her rage. I cannot express its power. We were in a feedback loop. It was a mess. It went well beyond a normal fight between two best friends, even a really bad fight. 

Since that night and through a lot of therapy, I have come to realize that we were both suffering. We were both triggered. We both flooded as a result. I had a dysregulated stress response to Heather as a result of the past abuse I experienced and my own unrelated traumas. At that moment, I could not see past her very loud shrieks and cutting, cruel words. This was not the Heather I knew. I one-hundred percent did not get it. Our exchange left deep scars that took years (on my end) to repair.

I will carry this. 

—

Way back when we were T9-texting, before there were blogs, and before people felt safe buying things online or making money from sponsorships and their social media streams, I met Heather. We became friends in real life because we were dating two dudes who lived in the same house.

We met in college. She visited when my oldest son was born. When she and I made our way back to Utah, we lived one block away from each other — by choice. Heather and I both worked in high tech. We both began blogging unrelatedly and at the same time. I visited her in the hospital when Leta was born. Leta wore my sons’ hand-me-downs. I brought Heather People & Us Magazines the day she spent in a Mental Health Facility. My favorite was a fleece jacket made for me by a friend. Heather was a brilliant writer. She understood me like no one else ever did. I bet she got a lot of people. She was whip smart and could be so absolutely kind. She cried at my sorrows and laughed at my weird sense of humor. 

Our college friendship was my favorite. Her boyfriend, Jonny E, lived with my Dave. Jonny was the person I texted when I received the news of Heather’s passing. When Heather and Jon E. began dating, we became a foursome. Jonny, Dave and I lived together and I recall the day I was sitting in my room working on my laptop. Heather walked in with a stack of books. “Beth, can we talk?” I looked away from my laptop and said, “Of course.” “Beth, I think Jon and I are going to have sex. I went to the BYU library and checked out all of these science books.” We were all LDS and working our way out of being LDS. I said, “well the first thing you need to do is set aside all of those books.” We laughed about this for years.

During this same time we watched a metric ton of Law & Order. Why? Because Heather loved Angie Harmon and we loved Heather’s love of Angie Harmon. Then we all loved Law & Order – only the Angie Harmon episodes. Heather was convincing that way. There was the time we were helping Heather and Jonny E. move. Dave gave them this old, giant, wooden console television. Jonny E. and Heather were driving a rented moving van. As they rounded the corner, from University Avenue to 500 North in Provo, Dave and I watched the television bounce out of the back of the van and skitter across the intersection. They stopped the van. We were all laughing hard. Heather and I kept saying, “I think I am going to pee my pants. Beth, I am totally peeing my pants.” (We may have both peed our pants.) Dave and Jonny E. lifted the TV back into the van and we followed behind to see that it made it safely to its new home. The wood was scraped up, but it still worked! When Heather and Jon E. moved to LA, Dave and I visited them there a couple of times. We strolled through their cool West Hollywood neighborhood. When Heather mentioned having painful constipation, Dave and Jon went to the drug store to buy her an enema. She was certain to tell me how it worked. “Ok Beth. I read the instructions. I held the water in as long as I could. Oh my God. It worked. I pooped.” I loved that unfiltered and delightful Heather.

Years later, as we slow-rolled out of our friendship, Heather was ascending, stratospherically and ultimately became the most famous mommy blogger ever on planet earth. Selfishly I wish she would have been able to feel the pride I felt for her. I wish she would have been able to feel my honest friendship. I wish Heather was able to understand me. I wish she knew I was safe and someone she could trust. I wish she did not feel the need to actively shun me. We were no longer participating in a reciprocal friendship. She was famous and from what she communicated to me, she wanted me to be her fan. I was confused when she called me jealous. I had no idea why she could not feel my support. Mostly, I did not know or understand the voices that were in her head.

Let me be clear: There was so much I loved about Heather. I helped build our wedge. I did not know how to handle fame, or rather, my weird relationship to fame. The constant onslaught of people trying to get closer to her through me was confusing. Have you ever had a best friend suddenly become famous? I made mistakes. I experienced Heather’s rise in our neighborhood, online and via our mutual friends. I had a neighbor who constantly complained to me about Heather and Jon. She would come to my house and say, “can you believe Jon and Heather.” Then allegedly, she would return to Jon and Heather to report what I said about them, (at least that is what Heather shared with me). The need for people to get close to Heather through me never seemed to end. We shared mutual friends who were annoyingly and stridently neutral. I think their behavior and refusal to set a boundary with me or Heather was equally damaging. I wish our neutral friends had picked sides, or better, picked her.

The sycophants and haters were also real. Bloggers reached out to me so they could get closer to her. It was all new territory. It was the Wild West of the internet. I should not get a pass. However, those neighbors, friends and internet people who used my relationship with Heather to leverage their relationship with her are also responsible.

In the purest form of the word sycophant, they used Heather to get what they want and to get a price of what she was having. I am ashamed of the moments I fell for it. I am sad I got caught up in it. It did not take me long, however, to see how unhealthy and unkind it was. It all sounds so petty now. I wish I had not been caught up in it. Heather was not something to use to prop myself up. Heather was my friend, albeit a very difficult friend. I also cannot imagine what she was going through.

Near the end, I was frustrated that our friendship was not withstanding all of the craziness. I wrote something. See, her written words, especially the ones about me and Dave, were often biting and cruel. I told myself she could handle it. She did not handle it. She screamed that I hurt her feelings — deeply. She told me she cried for a month, that she could not get out of bed for a month. “Beth, you are my very best friend. I don’t know if I can forgive you.” 

Honestly, I thought she was being unfair and overly dramatic. I did not grasp her mental illness. I make no excuse for her cruelty. She was brutal, cold and absolutely mean. I remember, and to quote her, “I will send my minions” to DOX anyone who trolled her or “hurt her feelings.” And then she sent her minions, who caused so much pain and suffering as a result. She openly stated that she hated to be opposed or pushed back on. Ultimately, this was the breaking point. I no longer knew or liked or felt safe with this version of Heather.

I was absolutely terrified of her. I also did not get it. I did not understand that maybe there was actually some truth to her words. Maybe she was actually upset for a month and struggled to get out of bed. Sure, I get depressed. Yet, I have never known a kind of suffering that causes you to stay in bed for a month. I did not comprehend.

What I also did not realize then and what I see so clearly now is that there was nothing I could do to fix her, to make her trust me, trust my intent or heal her brokenness. I am just not that powerful. I think at times I thought I was. I feel selfish. I am not sure she could be the person I wanted her to be. My guess is we were destined to end, which totally sucks.

Now as Heather fades away, I believe we all know what an absolute tragedy this is. I hope she finds peace. I hope she knows she was loved. May she find rest.

(PS: I am currently in Japan and wanted to get this up before another day passed. I would like to add links to this post/and maybe more edits.)

Amsterdam to Melbourne then on to Sydney

by BethTravel / Travel Tips

Our bags are packed. We are (almost) ready to go. We fly home tomorrow. We will arrive on Thanksgiving afternoon. We ordered our Thanksgiving dinner while we were still in Melbourne, from a popular and hip restaurant in Salt Lake. Eli has graciously offered to pick it up so we will  have a feast ready when we roll into town.  (Thank you, Easy E! ❤️)

Five weeks plus one day ago, My husband, Dave, and I set out for our epic (work trip) adventure. We flew to England then Amsterdam (where Dave’s wallet remains), and then to Melbourne, Australia via Chicago and Los Angeles. On our Chicago to Los Angeles flight, I glanced at the lady sitting behind Dave. She was pilates-fit. Her forehead looked pressed like a starched shirt and plumped like all the best fillers LA can serve up. As I glanced, she glared, which forced me to abruptly move my head.

“Wait? That looks like Christopher Loyd, the guy from the “Back to the Future” movies.”

I turned my head back and quickly googled Christopher Lloyd and his wife, which I believe is his fifth wife. The woman sitting behind Dave looked exactly like her photo pictured in my search. It was Christopher Lloyd. Dave did his best to take a photo surreptitiously. As we exited the flight, Chris (that is what his wife called him) said, “Chris, will you grab my hat?” He did. We were inches from one another. I made eye contact. I smiled; he smiled back. Truth be told, if it had not been Christopher Lloyd, I would have started talking to him, but it just seems weird to make chitchat with a celebrity.

Me making eye contact with the actual Christopher Lloyd

It has been a long, strange, happy, exhausting adventure. The time flew by and often I threatened to fly home:

“Dave, I think you should stay. I already looked at flights and it will only cost 65$ US to change my ticket. You will be fine!”

Dave was never thrilled that I wanted to go home. I wasn’t necessarily homesick. I was tired of traveling. I know. I am the one who is supposed to love, love, love travel, planes, lounges, foreign grocery stores, and exploring new destinations. I do. In fact, this trip has been largely wonderful. 

Melbourne, Victoria, Australia
Me in front of the women’s hospital Melbourne

One of the sources of my malaise was that, as soon as we landed in Melbourne, well actually like two days later, I was bitten by a completely insane flying Australian insect. Dave and I were walking to a new park. I was bitten between the Melbourne Women’s Hospital and Royal Park. I felt the sting immediately. I also noticed the accompanying and prompt blood blister that appeared on my arm. The blister was followed by swelling, big red bumps and strange red spots. I truly wanted to itch my arm right off my body.

Then I was assured,

“Beth, it’s inflammation. You know you are allergic to everything!”

It is true. I am allergic to a lot of things. I was not dead yet, so I assumed I would be ok. 

Docklands, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia

That was until like three nights later. It was 1:03AM. I shot right out of bed grabbing my throat. I could not breathe.

“Dave, I cannot breathe!”

I tried to point to the location of my inhaler and any other medication I thought might help. Dave tried to help. We were a disoriented mess: two people in REM sleep, startled awake to a medical emergency. I could not catch my breath. I could see it in Dave’s face. He was scared. I was scared. In seconds I went from coughing uncontrollably to wheezing. I sounded like a crackly-chested seal. I asked Dave to put my Apple Watch on so he could check my oxygen levels. They were good, which gave me peace of mind.

I also knew what it was. I have asthma. I was having an asthma attack. Asthma has never woken me out of a sound sleep. I used my inhaler. Usually after two inhaler puffs I start to feel better. I was not feeling better. I could not catch my breath.

I asked Dave (repeatedly),

“Why am I having an asthma attack? We are in a hotel!”

Docklands, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia

Tears flooded my eyes. Then they covered my face. I looked at Dave and asked him to look at me. Then I said,

“I need you to hear this. I am really scared. I also want you to know that I have been in regular contact with Eli and have been struggling to get a hold of Kyle. A few hours ago Kyle messaged me. I am so glad. See, if I die tonight, I am glad for him that we connected.”

I am not trying to be dramatic to be dramatic. The dramatic moment and the fear Dave and I felt, stands all on its own. 

Flying Foxes, Yarra Bend Park, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia

Seriously, I have never felt the sustained loss of breath like I did right then. I tried to calm myself by sucking on a cough drop. I took some other drugs and noticed the prednisone my allergy doctor urged me to keep on deck:

“Beth, you travel all over the world. I would hate to see you suffer.” I settled on the couch and asked Dave to cue up Netflix. I followed with, “I will not sleep. I will be sitting upright watching a show.”

Flying Fox (Fruit Bat) Chau Chak Wing Museum, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia

True to my word, I sat upright all night long. Every time my head dropped, I started coughing and then I would choke as I tried to catch my breath. It completely sucked. A few episodes in, I noticed that Dave slept with the door open in our “upgraded from a room to a suite” room.

“He will hear me. I will not die alone.” I was relieved. He tells me, “Beth, I did not sleep. Instead, I listened.” 

The next morning we were exhausted. I was also feeling better. We decided to go to a pharmacy for more meds. On our way out of the hotel, I asked the lovely front desk person where the nearest hospital was in case I needed to make a visit. That is when they talked to me about allergy season:

“Well mate, it’s really bad this year. And we had a thunderstorm last night.” What did not compute to my northern hemisphere-brain is that it is spring here in Australia (and the rest of the Southern Hemisphere.)

“You have asthma? You need to be really careful this week. There have been warnings all over the news.” The front desk person stated.

“WHAT?” I said.

“Yes. They call it Thunderstorm Asthma. It is really bad.”

I really thought they were joking. I was like, “Thunderstorm Asthma. That sounds like something from Mad Max.”

“Beth, (because we were on a first name basis), you have to take it seriously. Please be careful. PEOPLE DIE!” 

Hours later the hotel sent me a news article and that we were indeed visiting during the height of  the apocalyptic phenomenon known as Thunderstorm Asthma, which involves high levels of grass pollen. And grass is the thing I am most allergic to. Oof! Yes. You read that correctly. In 2016, 3,400 Melbourne locals were hospitalized and ten people died. I decided to do all the things I do to calm down my inflammation response, which included asking our hotel for a non-feather blanket and foam pillows. After receiving approximately ten additional feather pillows and after speaking with the night time housekeeping dude, (who also assured me that “you know Covid is a hoax,)” well, after he spoke to his staff and I asked him if we could avoid the Covid conversations,

“I really like you. You have been good to us. Let’s just agree to disagree on all the Covid conspiracies.”

He reluctantly, yet sweetly complied and two foam pillows were delivered to our room. 

I survived. We truly had a lovely time. We were in Melbourne for two weeks. While there we explored the Southern Coast. We also explored Melbourne. Every night we set a goal of walking another direction, to another park, museum or landmark. We loved the National Gallery, walking back and forth over all the bridges that cross the Yarra River, walking through the Docklands neighborhood at night, and peering down seeing beautiful graffiti line the ally way. Our favorite city grocery store (Woolworths) is located on the 2nd floor of the Southern Cross train station. And then the day we bailed on the rental car, we had the amazing adventure of learning that flying fox is just a cute word for toddler-sized fruit bats. We learned this because on the edge of Melbourne is Yarra Bend Park where 50,000 fruit bats gather and sleep in the trees. In the evening all the bats fly a few miles and hang in the trees at Melbourne’s Botanic gardens. We walked under for what seemed like miles underneath and near those bat filled trees. One fruit bat pooped inches from my head. It is the stuff of nightmares.

We connected with dear friends. One hosted us at their beautiful farm, which included wrangling and penning sheep, kissing a lama, petting horses and wrestling a gigantic piece of black netting over six large fruit trees to keep the birds out. Our other gave us a tour of their stylishly cool and very grown up office space. 

Today we are in Sydney. We have been here for eight days. Sydney has been good to me and my reactive self. We enjoyed our favorite Messina gelato/sorbetto, our favorite Sunday ferry rides. This time we took the ferry to Watsons Bay where we visited Morton National Park and walked to Pointer Gap Lookout. We visited the Chau Chak Wing Museum at The University of Sydney, walked new neighborhoods and familiar one. We also discovered that are in town during the blooming of the vivid purple flowered Jacaranda trees, and found a groove that made Sydney feel right. In fact, just last night near Bondi Beach we enjoyed dinner hosted by Dave’s delightful French colleague and her delightful French partner, who both love to surf and stated,

“Beth, the way you say that, you get the timing. Are you sure you are not French?”

That was one of the best compliments I have ever received: two French lovers who relocated to Sydney told me, the American, that  I remind them of their homeland. Dave chimed in,

“She is. Beth has family from France.”

Then they said they would protect me from Melbourne and its allergens next time we are here: “We will watch Beth.” I quickly interjected,

“Dave, I will connect with a Hemsworth brother until you return.” We all laughed. It did feel like home. 

Thank you, Sydney! Dave and I have been staying in the lovely Darlinghurst neighborhood, which is east of Sydney’s Central Business District (CBD/downtown), if I have my coordinates correct. Each morning, wherever we are, I wake up with Dave and walk him to work. This is the first trip that I have done every single day, except on thunderstorm-asthma day. Today, I walked Dave down Darlinghurst Road, took a left on Williams, and walked down the big hill past the giant Coca Cola sign. Then as we did our usual diagonal walk through Hyde Park to Pitt Street, I was filled with melancholy.

“Dave, I knew this would happen and I am not sure you will believe me. I recognize I threatened to go home, especially during the allergy stuff, but come on, that is totally understandable, right? Today, I feel a little sad. I am not sure I am ready to go. I really like the rhythm. I have enjoyed my time here.”

Sydney’s Jacaranda Trees, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia

True to our boys’ assessment,

“Mom, you love-hate everything!”

This trip has been no different. I love connecting with old friends. I hate thunderstorm asthma. I love where we are staying. I hate that it was not clean when we arrived. I am sad to leave. I am really excited to get back home. Five weeks is long. Flying from London to Melbourne is really long. Five weeks also flew  by. 

This evening Dave & I had dinner in our Darlinghurst neighborhood at an amazing place with an awesome name, #eatfuh. Yes, that is what it is called. We returned to our rental making plans for tomorrow’s flight. After stress eating 3 gluten free Hob Knobs I picked up in London, I felt a disturbance in the force. It took me another five minutes to realize my jacket was missing. Dave and I walked back to #eatfuh. As we stepped inside, our sweet waiter was holding something in his arms. It was my jacket. Thank you Sydney.

#eatfuh: dave with our waiter, the one who rescued my jacket, Darlinghurst, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia

We arrived at the airport this morning. As fate, or Hollywood, would have it, I spotted another actor: Richard E. Grant.

Richard E. Grant (Wikipedia)

I was like,

“Hey Dave, it’s that actor guy. I really like him. He looks better in person.”

And now we are waiting for our flight. ❤️ Until next time Australia.

Dave wanted me to add this photo of Richard E. Grant as Loki so I did.

Contemplating Life In Our London Hotel Lobby

by BethTravel
(Me in the Lobby)

We are currently staying at a modern, well-styled, fairly new, and well-trafficked hotel. As a result of the high traffic, I think the hotel feels older than it really is. It is located at the edge of the newish, trendy Spitalfields neighborhood. Spitalfields is a gritty, urbanized, hip area of East London. As we left our train the other night, two local London girls asked me where we were staying. “Near Aldgate East Station.” They looked concerned and as we parted ways they said, “Please be safe.” So far so good. 

(July 2022, Spitalfields, East London, United Kingdom)
(Ocotber, 2022, Spitalfields,East London, United kingdom)

We love the neighborhood. We like our hotel. Our hotel is close to Dave’s London office. We are surrounded by graffiti-covered streets, immense cultural diversity, yummy noodle restaurants, bronze elephant statues on sidewalks, and the super cool Spitalfields market. We also like that our hotel is not in London’s tourist neighborhoods such as Covent Garden or The Shard. Better, we like that we are amongst the people, the Londoners, or that is what we hope.

(October, 2022, Me & Dave, Straford-upon-Avon, England)

Here I sit in the lobby – for the second time. A few moments ago I gathered all of my work stuff, left my room, took the elevator to the wrong floor, made my way to the right floor, and found a semi-quiet place (there are no quiet spaces). I pulled out my cords, my laptop and my giant Bose noise canceling headphones. I looked for an outlet and began plugging in my 100% dead laptop when I realized there was a problem. I was in another country. I did not have my adapter. In fact, I left my US to UK adapter up in the room. I admit I actually tried charging my laptop from the very tiniest backup battery. That was a bust and I am sure someone will tell me that I was lucky I didn’t short out my laptop. I didn’t. I paused to think if there was any other way I could just stay put: “Can I work on my phone?” I knew the answer. As a result, I packed up my laptop, giant Bose headphones, cords and batteries. I walked up to the front desk and asked the dude, “Hey, do you have an adapter I can borrow?” In the self righteous tone of a pubescent teenager, this grown man said, “Um, no. There is a Tesco down the street. Maybe they will have one.” I looked at him, perplexed. Sensing my confusion, or sensing he had crossed a line, he said, “Well, we used to sell them here.” I assured him that I have an adapter in my room seven floors up (in this nine story hotel). “Well, why don’t you just go get it? Did you lose your key? I will make you another key.” I took a deep breath, looked him directly in the eyes, and responded, “It was just easier to ask you.” 

I grabbed my two backpacks, (I travel heavy), and made my way back to our room where I promptly scared the lovely housekeeping lady, who was quietly cleaning our room. I quickly pulled the adapter out of the wall, flashed it at her, apologized while thanking her and left. 

(Us, Upper Slaughter, Cotswolds, England, United Kingdom)

I am back in the lobby. My laptop is plugged in. So is my phone. I am wearing my giant Bose headphones, listening to music very loud, and trying not to get too distracted by Social Media. I cannot resist. I skim Twitter. I interact. I fall down a rabbit hole. Oh no!

My mind is back looking at my laptop. My body never left. We are in London until Saturday. First, we were supposed to take a sleeper train to Edinburgh. As a result of some last minute business plans, we switched our plans to fly to Berlin. There was trouble with our Berlin plane tickets. I often think (hope) Dave married me because I am flexible and in seconds, I am willing to change plans and then change plans again and again. Now this weekend we will head to the South Downs. I believe we are staying on a farm that has horses and llamas.

(Us, Beachy Head, East Sussex, England, United Kingdom)
(Kyle, Beachy Head, East Sussex, England, United Kingdom)

I have a jet lag headache and could use a little horse therapy. We also plan on driving to Beachy Head, a stunning place covered in rolling hills covered by vivid green grasses, lined with dramatic white chalk cliffs in near Eastbourne in East Sussex on the south England coast. We traveled there eight years ago with our boys and Dave’s mom. It was a rainy, magical day and I am desperate to feel some melancholic nostalgia. Consequently, there is nothing like a visual/sense memory to get you in the feels. Crossing my fingers. Time flies. I miss those days. I ache for them. [insert deep, longing breath here]

(Me on our flight: San Francisco to London Heathrow)

As you can imagine via my sentiments in the above paragraph, for me (and many), traveling as a recent, empty nester is painful and a little strange. (By the way, I also feel like I am writing a non-sequitur, letter-from-camp to the world.):

Hello World, 

Now just traveling as the two of us, Dave (my husband for those of you who don’t know) are figuring our new life out. Happily, we are making serious breakthroughs in our jet lag issues. We (both) own that we can be super crabby bitches as we adjust to new time zones. Dave admits that he did not have to be such an ass when he gave me shit about leaving my big bottle of sparkling water in at our Cotswold hotel. I quickly apologized after criticizing him for leaving his special allergy meds back in Utah. “Dude, I reminded you like seventeen times. It was on our list! How could you forget?” “Beth, I looked at the pills. They were both tiny, white and round. They looked the same.” “OH MY GOD! Didn’t you read the bottle?” “Why would I do that when I could look at the pills?” [insert my head exploding here]

(Dave, National Trust, Snowhills Manor and Garden, Broadway, England)

I know what you are thinking. I am totally justified. We all wish Dave would have read the name of the prescription on the pill bottle. Even though he will edit this before I post it, please don’t tell Dave we all know that I am right. Rest assured, Dave and I also stopped at Boots, the local UK pharmacy yesterday. And as they say here in the United Kingdom, “everything is sorted.”

(Dave, Great Coxwell Barn, Faringdon, United Kingdom)

Moving on, please also know that as I mentioned, we had a breakthrough, I mean, days of breakthroughs. We started with admitting we were really tired and irrational. “Dave, I am really mean. Wow!” We pushed forward, recognizing that we both could be more patient with one another and on to forgiveness. “Beth, I am sorry I said something about the Queen and laundry and the cost of laundry. The Queen is dead and you are really good at laundry.” Ok. That is not exactly what Dave said. He did however apologize for his mean laundry comment and yes, his comment also mentioned the Queen in reference to me doing laundry, may she rest in peace. 

(From a Memorial Poster for Queen Elizabeth, Great Coxwell Barn, Faringdon, United Kingdom)

Ultimately, I think the observations of me and my life are funny, better, they only grab a slice of reality. I am sure I do the same to others. In our case, my friends and family are always like, “Beth, you love to travel. You always travel. It’s always happy happy joy joy magical wonder.” They are correct. I love to travel. I am not sure if they understand why and I am not sure it matters if they do. 

(Dave & H’angry Me on the Tube after our first train broke down, London, United Kingdom)

In case you are curious, I love to travel because it is extremely difficult. Every day is an unexpected puzzle and all of the puzzles push me out of my comfort zone. Whether it be sorting through severe melancholy, finding the correct adapters, remembering the sparkling water, or trying not to kill your husband because he cannot read a pill bottle and then explains why not reading a pill bottle is the most logical thing one can do, well, traveling places me in a position to learn, to communicate, to figure my shit out, to work on my marriage and to see the world from someone else’s point of view. 

What a gift travel is. 

love, Beth & Dave

(The most amazing couple I saw from afar, National Trust, Snowhills Manor and Garden, Broadway, England)

Notes from a Plane: Melbourne to Sydney, Australia

by BethTravel

Dave & I are on a one hour Qantas Airlines flight from Melbourne to Sydney. This is our first time flying Qantas. Minutes into our journey, the flight attendants serve us a beverage and meat pies. I promptly give Dave my meat pie.

“Oh wow! They are warm.” Dave happily exclaims.

Sydney, New South Whales, Australia

Now mid-flight, Dave & I begin planning our next Melbourne/Sydney trip. He tells me that he needs to return before the end of the year. Knowing I want to be better prepared the next time I visit, I start scheming a plan. I start talking with my hands, which bump into the armrests and the seat in front of me, as I eagerly suggest that next time I will load a duffle filled with my favorite gluten free food. As soon as I am done explaining how I will smuggle all the gluten free goodness into Australia, I look at Dave with enthusiasm and express the following non sequitur: “Dave, I am hopeful I can talk to our hotel into putting a microwave into our room. Then I can cook my oatmeal each day!”  My mind bounces and I imagine myself traveling Australia’s Great Ocean Road. 

Phillip Island, Victoria, Australia

As I type I am rocked by the turbulence. I am nauseous. (Turbulence usually doesn’t make me nauseous.) I am also listening to Michigan-born Sufjan Stevens’ song “The Seer’s Tower.” Achingly hypnotic, this song tugs at all my feelings. My son, Kyle, introduced me to Sufjan Stevens. Now I miss Kyle – of course. The songs I am listening to are playing faster than my thumbs can hit my tiny iPhone screen. Now I am listening to Johnny Cash’s cover of “I’ll Fly Away.” Johnny Cash’s deep, twangy and familiar voice is comforting. Before I finish writing my Johnny Cash sentence, I hear the lyrics, “you better be home soon,” by one of Dave’s favorite bands, “Crowded House.”

Phillip Island, Victoria, Australia

Keyed up from a slew of mournful melodies, I feel desperately homesick. I want to be home right this second. I imagine myself sitting at my kitchen counter, eating my oatmeal and drinking my green tea. I picture Dave and myself, enveloped in a sea of Southwestern spring blossoms and smells as we walk around our neighborhood. I hear Eli walk into the front door, yelling his familiar, “Hello! Hello! I am home.” Suddenly I am snapped out of my melancholy with the realization that I will be home soon. I recognize that homesickness really means I am having a hard time and that eventually it will be ok. As such, I decide to remain present in this moment. I (actually) want to be here and here with Dave.

Craig’s Hut, Clear Hills Track, Mount Buller, Victoria, Australia

Suddenly, I am distracted. First, I noticed the light. Then the man. He is in the seat in front of me. He is shining his phone light around his seat. He appears desperate. I wonder what he dropped? I hear the flight attendant announce that the plane is preparing to land and that we can find our baggage at carousel three.

Sydney Harbor Bridge, Sydney, New South Whales, Australia

In the last few minutes I think about our last few days: Dave and I have four days left of our (just over a) month-long adventure. I love to travel. I loved our time in London. I have mixed feelings regarding both Melbourne and Sydney. I am sincerely surprised by those feelings. (See, I adored Australia the last time we were here. I wonder if it was because I was safe in our little family bubble and did not really have to interact with the world around me? Perhaps.)

Dave at our friend’s farm, Gembrook, Victoria, Australia

As a result, I also imagine it would be fair to attribute my mixed feelings regarding Australia to the following: After flying eleven hours from London to San Francisco (13 hours on the plane), then waiting six hours in San Francisco, Dave and I hopped on our San Francisco to Sydney flight. (Yes. We really hopped.) I celebrated my birthday for 16 hours on the San Francisco to Sydney flight; a flight we took while crossing the international date line, (hilarious – nope, but a good story). We left San Francisco on April 23 and landed in Sydney, Australia on April 25. My birthday is April 24. My guess is my jet lag was more noticeable as a result of my feeling a wee bit neglected. (Thanks a heap, international date line!) In the interest of full disclosure, Dave did wake me up at midnight and sweetly wished me a happy birthday. He also brought along two gifts, until he realized he left one of them at home. (True story: Dave still does not remember what the second gift was.)

Cake made by my friend Michelle, Gembrook, Victoria, Australia

My extended blue mood was immediately followed by intense PMS, which come on, aren’t I too old for intense mood swings and menstrual cramps? Wait. Don’t answer that. So of course my PMS contributed to my inability, or I should say, my slow-ability to connect with Australia and its  culture.

Me under the Sydney Harbor Bridge, Sydney, New South Whales, Australia

Perhaps the following observation is the reason for my disconnect 🤣: Australians don’t much care for Americans (people from the United States, to you and me  😉). I can’t say that I blame them. I mean, when Americans are brave enough to actually leave our exceptional country, we are loud, we like ice in our water, and then we send said glass of water back until it has enough ice. To prove my point, while traveling through Australia, (and other countries), if I had a dollar for every time a non-American proclaimed, “You are an American. You must need ice in your water,” I could buy a small, lukewarm lake. As we sit in their countries, they are equally incredulous when I say, “I prefer my water room temperature.” “Really? I mean, we have ice. We keep it for the Americans.” “Nope. Just water.”

Melbourne, Victoria, Australia

In truth, on week four of our adventure, I admit (and as an American) I became tired (weary/sad/oddly protective) as a result of the onslaught of put downs: our coffee sucks, said a woman who has only been to one Hawaiian island. Our pizza is gross, said another who had a slice in Sacramento. Our stores are too big and so are our serving sizes, said someone else. I will give the Australians the benefit of the doubt. I imagine they usually can slam on America without an American present.

Melbourne, Victoria, Australia

Nevertheless, I must admit that beyond my Tall Poppy Syndrome bewilderment, I gained a greater and more positive understanding of Australia geographically and its culture. As Dave and I reflect, we recognize that because we spent a significant amount of time in each place, we became quite acquainted with each city. In Melbourne, for instance, I was delighted to find that the larger Collins Street was parallel to the smaller, Little Collins Street, and that similarly the major Burke Street was parallel to the minor, Little Burke Street. Naturally I assumed that Flinders Street, which was near our hotel, would obviously have a parallel Little Flinders Street. On our last day my mind was blown when I realized that what I thought was Flinders Street was actually Flinders Lane, (which should be Little Flinders Street, if you ask me).

Sydney Opera House from the ferry, Sydney, New South Whales, Australia

 In each city, we actually talked to Australians, meaning we socialized. Socializing with Australians was amazing. We learned about cultural pride and not just pride in Australia itself, but pride in each region. I heard strongly phrased sentences such as, “Melbourne is better because it has more culture. And Sydney sucks, except for the harbor!” I also heard, “Melbourne is cold! Sydney has beauty! I hate Melbourne.” I admit I felt a little pressured to pick a side. That is why when I am pushed against the wall I will take the advice regarding the Tall Poppies and proclaim, “I love them both – equally!”

Dave, Surry Hills, Sydney, New South Whales, Australia

By the way, travel is never bad. In fact, Australia was pretty great! For starters, they say, “Brekkies,” for breakfast and “Maccas” for McDonalds. (Ok. The McDonald’s abbreviation was a little weird.) I connected with two long lost college friends and their beautiful families. One of them called us, “Beth-O,” and “Dave-O,” because they say that’s what Australians call their friends. (Pretty cool.)

Even at the grocery store, they call it Brekkies. Melbourne, Victoria, Australia
McDonalds, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia

On a lovely Mothers Day drive, visiting Phillip Island, Dave and I saw a penguin hiding in its little penguin hole. We also have seen so many kangaroos and wallabies. We saw a lyrebird twice, one near my girlfriend’s farm in Gembrook in Melbourne’s Yarra Valley & Dandenong Ranges, and then again near Mansfield, in Melbourne’s high country, at my other friend’s cabin. Both of my friends declared, “do you know how rare it is to see this bird? Most Australians never see one.” Dave and I saw it twice.  We also drove up a crazy mountain road to see “Craig’s Hut,” where the movie, “The Man from Snowy River,” was filmed. It was stunning to see the undulating mountains fade into the rosy purple sunset.

A wallaby at Phillip Island, Victoria, Australia

In the end, travel is always ok (better than ok, really). It is, however, challenging, (and probably why I was so homesick just a few minutes ago). Nevertheless, the hard part is ultimately why I love leaving home. I love problem solving after problem solving after deep breath after mispronouncing a word for the fourth, fifth and tenth time, cultural nuances, unexpected delight and deep, soul crushing sorrow.

Phillip Island, Victoria, Australia

Travel is doing laundry on a Sunday night at a crowded laundromat. It’s packing and repacking, bringing the wrong shoes and remembering the right adapters. It’s meeting people, seeing how they live, how they love and learning that lamb is consistently fresher and better in Australia and apparently beef is better in the USA. It’s talking about Australian history with Bernard, the kind cheese vendor, at the local grocer. Then as you exit the local grocer, deep in conversation regarding self love and self acceptance, you look across the street and the heavens open up and you see a gluten free bakery. “Let’s go show ourselves some love.” my friend and I gleefully said as we jay-walked ourselves across the street. (Australians are cool with jay-walking, by the way). Traveling is magical. It really does help me appreciate what I have and who is holding my hand when I have anxiety on a Tuesday evening flight, halfway around the world ❤️.

Us riding the ferries, Sydney, New South Whales, Australia
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How We Saved The Day: Our journey to England

by BethTravel

If I skewed my words ever so slightly, I know I could easily make my husband, Dave, and me look like the heroes of this story. Instead, I will avoid embellishment, and to the best of my ability, I will tell the straight up truth. 

Here is our story: 

We decided to fly to London a few days early so we could kick the jet lag before Dave had to be at work on Tuesday. Dave and I arrived at Houston International Airport several hours prior to our flight. We spent that time in the overcrowded Amex Centurion Lounge. After spending a few hours crammed into a cafe table surrounded by our carry on luggage, I realized it was nearly time to board. I put my no-fun compression socks back on, shoved my things back into my travel backpack and we were off to the gate. Our flight to London would be nine to ten hours. Dave and I made our way to Gate E5 in the International Terminal. 

Weeks before our trip, Dave used our United Airlines miles to get on a waitlist for an upgrade to Economy Premium or Business Class. As we stood near the gate, we learned that we would not be upgraded. We would be sitting in our original seats. Dave and I both know that’s just how it goes. In fact, we are both top-tier elites at United and this year we never seem to get upgraded. Weird. 

Dave walked over to look out the massive floor to ceiling windows. They looked onto the tarmac. I continued to stand near the gate. From our respective places, we both heard it: “Ladies and gentlemen, our flight is oversold. We are offering 50,000 United miles to one passenger who is willing to give up their seat and leave on a later flight.” Before I could think the thoughts, “I bet Dave will want to be bumped,” he was walking over to me, “Beth, should we do it?” “Sure, I said.” (*I am sure in our minds we were both hedging our bets, hoping that if we left on a later flight, we would get better seats, or at least the next plane would not be as crowded.)

We walked up to the gate desk and the agent quickly told us they only needed one volunteer, “not two,”  she snapped. We took a deep breath and accepted our fate. Minutes later we were sitting  on that very same oversold flight. We left our aisle assigned seat open and Dave graciously sat in the middle seat. 

Right about then our cabinet guy called. I answered and we talked about warranties and waiting to figure things out until I returned to Utah. As I hung up, Dave said. “They made the announcement. They still needed just one person to give up their seat. This time they are offering a $1,500 flight credit. “Beth, why don’t you try this time?” My response was somewhere between annoyed, uncertain, and humorous: “what the hell, I’ll indulge Dave.”  

At that, I motioned to the closest flight attendant (Sara – not sure with or without an “h.”) She walked over to our seats. I asked and offered: “It needs to be the two of us. We are happy to take the credit for just one.” Quickly she texted something into her phone. I watched her read the message and then she asked me to follow her. 

I followed her to the entrance of the plane. We were surrounded by two other flight attendants. Sara asked me to share my offer with them. “Well, I have one person ahead of you.” One of the flight attendants interrupted. “I will take credit for one of us.” I responded. At once all three flight attendants looked at eachother, and in a cue Beyonce, “Who run the world, GIRLS, (girls),”  moment, they looked back at me, collectively shook their heads and said, “You fight for yourself! You ask for credit not just for you, but for both of you! You deserve it! Ask for what you want!” (Then I swear they said, “Beth, you are worthy!” But I may have only imagined that part…) I assured these epic flight attendants that I would speak up, that we would be ok, and that the world would be right. They made no promises. I thanked them and went back to my seat. 

On my way through the crowded aisles of feet, knees and elbows, a man in Premium Economy asked me about putting his name on this “give up your seat” list. In truth, I was not thrilled that he asked and I was also not very encouraging. I said something like, “There is someone ahead of us, my husband and I.” Then I felt guilty so I added, “Hey, why not give it a try?” I made it back to my seat, sat down and filled Dave in.

A few minutes later, the woman who had the middle seat that Dave was now sitting in, boarded. I could see her shaking as she approached our row. “You can have the aisle seat.” We assured her. Still shaking, she stood next to the aisle seat. She looked at us and began to speak. As she spoke, she began to cry. “This is my second very long flight ever! My partner and I want to sit together.” She motioned as if he were not simply across the aisle, but as if he were in another galaxy: “He is over there! I will wait here.” I could see from her passport she was from Spain. I also knew that she would be more likely to get someone to switch seats with her now that she had our aisle seat. 

Honestly, I remember the scary feeling of anticipating turbulence and sitting far away from your loved ones. I watched her texting and saw her body relax. “We have it worked out. We were able to switch places with someone.” She grabbed her things and moved across the plane. 

Within seconds I watched as a very large and hairy man walk toward our seat. “Oh no! I thought. “Dave is not going to like this.” The man smiled and sat down. Panic sweat drops covered my lip and the back of my neck. The large hairy main was at least three times as big as the sweet Spanish woman. My empathic anxiety (sweat droplets) were (obviously) for Dave, my middle seat stallion. (And this is why I asked Dave to remain in the middle seat: See, after one too many times of having men enter my personal airplane seat with their wide leg spreading and thigh grabbing, I have learned that I need to have husband or sons serve as buffers. No one crosses them and they keep me safe.) I felt Dave’s irritation. My heart dropped and I thanked him repeatedly for taking one for the team. “Dude, you are the best!” (In the interest of full disclosure, Dave mentioned that perhaps the man was not as big or as hairy as I implied. Dave’s words: “I mean, come on, he is not Hodor!”)

We settled ourselves. I looked around, waiting for the plane to take off. I saw her waving. She was waving at me. She started pointing at her phone. It was Sara, our lovely flight attendant. “You still want to take another flight? Quick! Grab all your things. You both good? I need to let them know you are in.” Sara stood behind our seats. I nodded and gave her a double thumb’s up. 

Dave, who I am sure did not immediately see her, was confused and startled. “Dave. No really. Quick. Grab all your things. We need to get off the plane.” “What? Really” We grabbed our things and followed Sara. She told us that they had accepted our bid and we would be on a flight to London the next day. 

For his seat-switching-generosity, I was hoping the giant hairy man would get the row to himself. After seeing the standby list, and listening to the woman scream at the gate agent, “How many four years olds do you know who are allowed to sit alone? Move my child now,” I am certain the plane would remain packed.

There we were, standing back at Gate E5. Sara said she would wait with us until the gate agent confirmed we were good to go. “I don’t want you to get stuck in Houston. I don’t want you to miss your next flight.” We thanked her and said that the sad thing about leaving her flight was her and the other flight crew: “We fly often. It’s always so wonderful when we encounter a flight crew like yours. Thank you for being so awesome!” Sara sweetly smiled and walked back onto the plane. 

Monkey Island Estate

I continued to watch and listen to impatient, frustrated and angry passengers. Our gate agent was entirely focused on trying to situate Dave and me. Then Dave reminded him that we would be ok racing to catch that flight to Boston that they had mentioned on the plane announcement earlier. “Really?” He said. “Really.” we responded. “Well let me see if I can make that work.” He made it work. Going through Boston would mean that we would only arrive in London a few hours later than we had planned. It was a lot better than staying in a Houston airport hotel until the next day.

In the sea of screaming passengers, one clearly pissed-off the gate agent, all the other gate agents and the man working on our new flight, stood a woman. She was standing very close to me, quietly, graciously. I was so focused on myself that it took me several minutes to realize that maybe she was trying to get on that Houston to London flight as well.

As we stood waiting, I noticed her beautiful french manicure. She seemed a little nervous, kind of like our shaky, Spanish former seat-mate. I am someone who likes to talk to strangers. As a result,  I said, “I love your manicure. It is very pretty.” 

“My granddaughter goes to beauty school. She did it.” “She did an excellent job.” I said. I asked if she was trying to get on the flight. “Yes I am trying to get to my grandchild’s….how do you say the thing when they are baptized?” I noticed her Guatemalan passport and said, “I say sprinkling, but I think most people say christening.” I responded.

 “Oh, Christening. Christening. Christening.” She said it three times to make it stick. She followed with, “Thank you for your seats.” That is literally when it occurred to me that this was the passenger we were giving our seats to. “Of course. We are happy to.” I said.

“Thank you very much. My husband died a few months ago.” She looked up in the air: “I told him that I really needed to get on this flight.” I started to choke up. She continued, “I don’t drive. My son-in-law is driving around the airport waiting to see if I get on the plane. My grandchild’s Christening is tomorrow. They gave me this ticket.” She pulled out her ticket and showed it to me: “See gate agent.” She did not understand that she was not confirmed on the flight. 

I looked at her and said, “I think your husband is listening. I think he wants you to get on this flight. He is looking out for you. He must have known what to do to get you on that plane.” We laughed and then we both cried. I gave her a hug and asked her her name. “I am Gladys.” “Gladys, I hope you have an excellent time in England.” I said. She had her seat and thanked us again. 

At that our super focused gate agent urged Dave and me to run to Gate C35: “Your flight to Boston is boarding now! I have confirmed seats for you.” “Are you sure?” We asked. “Yes. Now run. I will call the gate and let them know you are on your way.” Dave and I ran to gate C35. At first we ran like the wind and then, like at the halfway point I pleaded with Dave to slow down: “Dude, I’m going to pass out!” 

We arrived at gate C35. The gate agent dude looked at us contemptuously as we asked about boarding. “Um, you are not boarding. We’re not sure yet whether we’ll have seats for you. You are on standby.” Then he thrust his arm out in the direction of the seats: “Sit there. I will let you know if you can get on the plane.” We weren’t happy to learn that we were on standby. That wasn’t part of the deal.

Everyone boarded, even the people running from their tight connections. One man was turned away. A supervisor came out. I heard a lot of serious talk. We learned that some of the exit row seats were broken and that everyone may have to deplane. Then, Sharon, the very kind and wise supervisor walked over to us: “Don’t worry. I will get you on the plane.” She and I talked about Gladys, talked about being in the right place at the right time, and we talked about how the world could use some kindness. Sharon, the very kind United supervisor, got us on the plane.

Hours later, with my compression socks still suffocating my calves, we arrived at the gate ready to board our Boston to London redeye when Dave and I realized the magic that had descended on our very weird and long day. It was at that moment we realized that we were on the inaugural United Boston-to-London nonstop flight. There were United executives at the gate doing a photoshoot, a balloon arch, and a table spread with fruit trays, tea, and shortbread. There were gift bags for all the passengers. They gave us little lapel pins with the USA and UK flags. It was a party and it was a pretty amazing experience. We made it to London just over three hours after our original scheduled landing. Our flight attendant was just as kind. He held my hand in said, “Thank you, Mrs. Adams. It was our pleasure to have you on this flight.”

We have been in London since Friday. We started the first thirty hours without our checked luggage. I was disappointed to learn that the United lost baggage lady misinformed us regarding assistance.

While our luggage remained in Houston, we Uber’d our way to our first destination, this amazing place called Monkey Island Estate near the village of Bray. We saw no Monkeys, but did find two three-Michelin-starred restaurants: The Fat Duck and The Waterside Inn. No. We did not eat at these fine establishments. We opted for sandwiches and yogurts from the Sainsburys grocery store. I promise we will be back and I am leaning towards The Fat Duck! While on our Monkey Island getaway, we also walked for miles and miles and miles just like Mormon pioneer children. To the relief of my blistered and bleeding feet, we found a Nike Outlet, and I was able to buy new sneakers. After our delightful weekend, we made our way to London via the best smelling Uber ever. Our driver, whose other job is as a counselor for people with Autism, was even better. 

London was a whirlwind of museums, epic walks, city bikes, one play, Neil Gaiman’s, “The Ocean At The End Of The Lane,” an amazing Graffiti Tunnel, crossing several bridges, and lots and lots of Tesco Meal Deals. I think I liked the Temple Church the most. It is the place where Dave and I experienced a total meltdown last time we were here. We visited the church together. I took a picture in the bathroom by myself. We learned about William Marshal, the Magna Carta and the US Constitution and then we made our way over to the Museum of London, where we not only learned that the Romans were the first to settle London in like 20BC, we Face-timed with son #1 in a museum stairwell. On our way back to the hotel, we took the route that led us through Postman’s Park. There, at the end of this tiny, beautiful space we came across a covered shelter. The shelter is called, “The G.F. Watt’s Memorial To Heroic Self Sacrifice.” In it we found tiles dedicated to people who gave their lives to save another. Many were killed saving someone from drowning. Others lost their lives saving people from fires. And then there were Arthur Strange and Mark Tomlinson, “on a desperate venture to save two girls from quicksand in Lincolnshire were themselves engulfed on August 25, 1902.” It was an oddly and very humbling full circle moment. Dave and I gave our seats so a sweet widow could make it to her granddaughter’s christening. Arguably, we benefitted far more than the act of giving up our seats. And here we stood, learning about all these cool British people who gave up their lives for nothing more than to save someone else. 

Now we are back at the hotel. I have been in a relaxed frenzy reorganizing our things. I think we are packed. I should be asleep. We leave in the morning for Australia. 

(PS. I am posting from the LHR airport lounge. When I have a little more time, I will add captions to the pictures and add more links. Thank you for reading.)

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May is Mental Health Month

by BethTravel

Recently I noticed that many of my posts are kind of dark, deep dives into heartbreak. I was like, 

“Beth, you sound depressed. Why all the big feelings? Are you always this sad?” 

Maybe I am depressed. I definitely have very large feelings. Please know that I am not always this sad. Yet, if I were “this sad,” I think that is ok too. Regarding my often pain-filled blog posts, I simply think I write when I have something I am working through (or most likely have been triggered). Writing helps. I have also come to believe that telling our stories is crucial to healing. Selfishly, I also recognize that a big part of my healing is having a platform. Honestly, at this point I am not sure who reads my words. Nevertheless, I am grateful I have a place to put them. I am grateful I am able to write them down. I am grateful for the opportunity to process and heal. Even better, I am grateful for those who do speak up, who do stand by me, validate and show me that I am worthy and I am seen. You are a gift. You have saved me more times than I can count. Seriously! Thank you! 

I only hope I can do that for you. 

…


Earlier I was watching Oprah’s new show on mental health called, “The Me You Can’t See,” when I heard the following quote,

“Therapeutic change is about healthy relationships. It’s about feeling like you belong and like feeling like you are connected.”

I love this quote and I agree. About the show, sure I cried all the way through and no, I am not going to review it except to say that it is vulnerable and it is good. I hope it reaches those who need to hear its message. 

…

Now onto my story:

The stars collided in such a way that I could not refuse their message. My mind is racing to connect all the dots that have brought me to this place. I see the intersection of my family and our relationship with the Mormon Church (The Church of Jesus Christ of Later Day Saints). I hear my best friend Marianne say, 

“Mormons are just like everyone else. They make mistakes. They care about social status, prosperity, power and popularity. They cheat on their spouses and talk behind your back. The problem is because they have Jesus, they think they are better. I would argue using your belief in God to justify your ‘Christlike’ behavior is even worse.”

I do not disagree. 

As I think about Marianne’s words I solidly hear my non-Mormon therapist say,

“You know, Beth, many people love being Mormon and do not blame the Mormon church for their problems.” Then I see her pause long enough to make sure that I am really paying attention. She continues, “I also think many of these same people grew up with families who gave them healthy tools to navigate such an intense religion. These were the families that also provided their children with a healthy sense of self.”

Immediately I feel inadequate. I want to throw up. I feel deep pain. I feel weird. As a young girl, I know I did not have the tools. I know I did not possess a healthy sense of self.

As I try to piece this rush of feelings together, I am thrust back in time. I see my trigger. I feel the pain and insecurity as I remember how I perceived the women at church treat my mom. Though not everyone was like this, the ones who were, were terrible. I let my mind remember. I see my mom’s good friend dropping her upon being accepted into a more prominent social circle. I remember perceiving like my mom felt inadequate and rejected. I remember all the phone calls from those same women, including the “good” friend. They always wanted to make sure my mom knew how bad my sisters were. I remember the rage and frustration I felt knowing that the kids of these same women were doing the same or worse. I felt powerless as I watched my mom appear to feel like it was all her fault. It was not her fault. Those women were cruel, exclusive and self-righteous. Many of my peers remember these women differently. I think that is ok. I imagine we can hold space for all of us.

Most of these women live in Utah now. So does my mom. It is my memory that they never have included my mom, or invited her to their Minnesota get togethers. I imagine they would tell her the same thing the local LDS moms tell me,

“We just didn’t think you would want to come.”

I imagine my mom feels less than, confused and rejected. I wonder if she thinks it’s her fault. Maybe she moved on long ago. 

Abruptly I move from these feelings of sorrow to the moments I needed my mom’s empathy and compassion. Instead, I hear her words every single time I shared my pain,

“They are such good people. Beth, are you sure there wasn’t something you did?”

What I have learned through hours of therapy and mistakes I have made myself is that what I needed is for my mom to believe my story (as it was). I needed her to stand by my side and to protect me.

Of course, we can always do better. I can do better. Regardless, what I keep thinking about is this: why do we live in a world where my mom or a person of color, or the whistleblower, the rape victim, the poor kid, or the family who no longer attends church has to shoulder the burden and constantly prove they are valid or that they have worth? Why does the burden of proof fall solely on the disadvantaged or marginalized? Why is the outsider required to carry the relationship? It makes no sense. Victim Shaming or shunning the outsider or whatever you want to call it, drives me absolutely bonkers! Unjustified rejection is my trigger. It is also my trauma.

I am certain this trauma goes right back to the moment my family walked into the doors of the LDS church. My parents were recently married. Both of them were on their second marriage. They were young. And somehow in my mom’s upbringing, I believe she was taught that everything was also her fault. I believe she wanted to have healthy relationships. I believe she wanted to fit in and to connect. As a young mom, who was raising a blended family with six children, I believe she did her best. What I remember is that her best was taking the blame, asking me to take the blame, and consequently, reinforcing our cultural belief that the burden falls on the disadvantaged. By the way, it is also my memory that the women at church had no problem letting my mom take the hits. I always thought it was so cruel. I don’t know if she realizes what I see. I am sure my truth would embarrass her and break her heart.

Honestly, how on earth could one expect her to give us a strong sense of self while she was reconciling her own past trauma? How on earth could one expect her to stand with confidence as a new member and within the confines of such a rigorous belief system and religion?  How could I expect her to navigate the nuance of prosperity doctrine, social status, the generational cliques, while at the same time incorporating Christ’s teachings of inclusion and love? I truly believe she did her best. I also believe many of these women grew to love my mom. She is kind and openhearted.

Nevertheless, as many times as my mom has owned these moments, the trauma is still deeply embedded. It is what it is. I also fear I have perpetuated this pattern. For me to heal, I recognize that need to be honest regarding my complicity.

As a result of this learned behavior, within these dynamics, I always felt like it was me, not them. I felt like if I could shove myself into their world, everything would be fantastic. I have come to believe that feeling like I am less than and unworthy is damaging. I cannot fix them, or better, I cannot heal their own damage, the damage that causes them to be mean. I can only surround myself with people who love me for who I am.

As a result of these experiences, I was determined to help my kids feel a healthy sense of self. I was determined that they would always feel worthy. I encouraged their dreams, their fashion sense, their interests. I look them in the eyes. I make sure to connect with them each time they leave. I tell them I love them. I tell them I believe in them. I tell them these things often. Regardless of these positive behaviors, I also feel as though I have failed my sons. See, I could have done better. I am heartbroken. Now, when I know they are actively being ostracized and excluded I have never said and then asked them,

“Kyle and Eli, they are such good people. Are you sure there wasn’t something you did?”

However, what I did do is when they were actively being ostracized I stridently tried to negotiate with the parents. For years, I worked on these parental connections as I tried to prove our worth. I bargained over and over and over again. I allowed my boys to needlessly suffer because somewhere inside of me I felt like it was my fault. Thinking about the moments my children were rejected, condemned, and excluded fills me with suffocating pain and shame. I see the damage I enabled. Instead of encouraging them to walk away from people who do not treat them well, I encouraged them to stay. I am so sorry. I think I really still believed that I was the bad one. I was the one who was unworthy.

I have apologized privately to my sons. I have actively held boundaries with those who have been so unkind, intentionally or neglectfully. Now I straight up call these folks assholes. My brain also breaks each time I hear someone say, 

“well, I mean, it was so and so’s plans. I did not want to step on toes.” 

I scream inside at those who know what is right and do nothing. I think they are lame. After repeatedly placing my sons in harm’s way, and allowing them to stay in a situation they were ill prepared to navigate, I finally see that there is nothing I could have done to change who these people are. Sure, these folks also exist in a belief system where I believe they think they did what was right (in spite of our sons feel less than). From my lens, this behavior is still not ok. Regardless, it was my job to protect them. I could have done a much better.

That is why regardless of where I am tempted to place blame, at the end of the day, the buck stops with me. (Accountability)

I should have encouraged better boundaries. I should have kept Kyle and Eli from this harm. For my failings, I will always be sorry. I pray for Kyle and Eli’s forgiveness. I hope they see that because I know better I am trying to do better. I hope they know that I always stand by their side. I have their back. I like them and I love them. They are good and they are worthy. Ultimately, I hope they are able to surround themselves with people who love them just the way they are, (and not people who are not determined to dictate who they should be). I hope they always have places and spaces where they feel connected and where they know they belong. I hope they know they are loved — because they are loved — always.

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