Closer to home, balloons remain tangled in the branches of a tree, just out of reach to pedestrians.

Happy birthday!

The first time I notice them on a walk with Fido, my rescue dog/long-term relationship, they are inflated. I imagine a child crying as the balloons lift up, just out of reach and the strings interlace with branches, creating a home for them. Each day, the child walks by, seeing those balloons deflate ever so slowly.

A reminder of the time which ticks by … tick.

Tick. Tick.

Moving constantly. But, in the times of this pandemic, it stands still.

Speeds up.

Keeps us in this limbo hovering between discomfort and release.

Now, when I walk by the balloons, they have shriveled to thin sheaths of whatever they are made of.

The shimmery silvery background of Happy Birthday has sunk into itself, leaving the surface wrinkled and crinkled. The thick border of magenta, a one-dimensional reminder of what life used to be like.

Pre-COVID-19.

When I first decided to pick up work on my memoir again, I swore it wasn’t going to be about this moment in time.

Because I thought it would be just that.

A moment. A blip.

As I jetted around the globe, the virus closing cities in my wake, I thought it’s only a quick thing.

Even when I put my tours on sale and started selling them, the same thought danced across my mind: this is fine. It will be fine. We’ve got this under control. It’s no big deal.

I literally booked a ticket to New York in March, the day Governor Cuomo made elbow bumps the new handshake.

Pre-pandemic fancy dinners are gone.

When James Beard closed its house and events through April, and I listened to assurances from the person in charge of our country, I think: It’s ok. May will be OK. 

But, we didn’t make it through mid-March with things being OK.

The full closure of the State hangs in the air as I go on, business as usual.

“It’s like a snow day,” I say on the phone to my friend. “We all know tomorrow it is going to snow. Dump down on us. Shut everything down. There is this weird electricity in the air. It’s a mix of foreboding and doom.”

When Nevada shut, it was solidified.

Two weeks.

I can make it through two weeks.

Then, death rates started skyrocketing. Ventilators were on short supply. Body bags pile up. And, I realize this isn’t going away in two weeks.

I eat my stash of marshmallows for breakfast. And cocoa cereal. And ice cream for lunch.

I email my tour participants and tell them they can have their money back, but I’m still hoping we can go to Spain in June. Even though Spain is closed and no one can leave their houses except for groceries.

It will get better, right?

I sit in a daze most of the time. When I’m not, I cry at the pause in life. The uncertainty. The releasing of projects I worked so hard to attain.

The realization that at 40, I have no income.

No family nearby.

No person to call if I get sick who would be there for me because when it comes right down to it, no one I know would risk their own health to make sure I’m alive.

It’s a shitty feeling to realize just how alone you are in a pandemic.

Fido and I, we bond.

He knows my moods.

He knows when I cry, I need him to jump up on my legs and nuzzle his furry face in my neck and lick my face until I get laughably irritated and tell him to stop.

Time ticks slowly those first two weeks. I don’t leave my house except to walk him, and each time I see those balloons still inflated, mingling in the branches.

When it becomes apparent we aren’t getting out of this in two weeks, I start to mobilize. To crawl out of my grief, to face head on my new normal … as odd as it may seem.

I turn the chaos around me into structure.

The announcement at the end of March that we’re sheltering in place through the month doesn’t surprise me. At that point, it gives me permission to lean in.

To lean all the way in to this new life.

Every morning, I wake up to an alarm and Fido, his furry, Muppet paws pouncing on me, his head burrowing into my shoulder as he groans his good mornings to me.

We walk. He eats. I feed the cats. Then, I put on my headphones and go for a three-mile walk through the ranch homes across the street.

Most days I talk to my parents.

When I get home, I click into my Peloton app and select a cardio workout followed by a strength workout. Some days, I feel so motivated that I scroll through the on-demand library, going from strength training to yoga to stretching to meditations.

Then, it’s tea and dishes while it steeps, followed by reading and mapping out my day.

It becomes a routine.

I seem to only notice the passage of time when my alarm dings for reminders of Zoom meetings or I’m out with Fido and realize it’s suddenly Thursday when only a minute ago it was Monday.

I take on new projects, I offer free private coaching, I keep myself busy and joke: I’m working more and harder than I have ever worked before and making zero dollars.

And so it goes … for almost three months.

Wake up. Work out. Work. Netflix. Read. Gratitude journal.

I create this nearly in penetrable bubble around me, protecting myself from whatever it is which causes my anxiety. And, my anxiety begins to disappear.

No money, no work … no anxiety.

Maybe it’s because it’s literally out of my control. Maybe it’s because I know there is a likely safety net of unemployment coming down the very long pipeline.

I barely write, even though I’ve set a daily reminder to take a writing break.

The tab on my computer with the document doesn’t close, but I don’t visit the page often.

And, when I do, it leads to feelings I buried long ago before I even left Thailand.

Stories I never thought I’d unravel, but one day, I do because I’m going through my old photos in a quest to find one to print and hang.

It’s funny, I have zero money, yet I find an extra $50 to replace my kitchen rug (a steal, right?!?!) and then move on to being focused on something to hang above my couch.

I come across a folder on my external drive.

March 2013.

Myanmar.

A week in my life that was perhaps one of the worst in my life. A time I was told I wasn’t allowed to ever discuss in any way, shape or form online or really to anyone, anytime, anywhere.

You can take the words away from a writer, but you can’t extinguish the feelings.

I scroll through the images of poverty, abuse, torture, and a tsunami of grief crashes over me.

For the first time since I’ve been in this self-decided isolation, I write from my heart.

I dig into the memories I was forced to bury and anger bubbles to the surface.

Hysteric grief.

Pure anguish.

I can barely see as I type, but I don’t dare stop.

This is nothing compared to the other photos from my experience.

My fingers are in direct communication with my brain and I don’t even know what I’m writing. The words simply end up on the screen as I sob and relive the experience.

My time in Thailand — the real time that I didn’t share with anyone — comes flashing back to me.

As I’ve grown away from the life I lived there, I’ve had time to process it … on occasion.

For the most part, I’ve barely processed the past decade of my life and travel and living abroad.

I’ve moved from chapter to chapter, barely pausing to think beyond the moment, let alone look and understand what’s taken place and how those moments have made me who I am — good and bad.

I’ve been moving. Moving. Moving.

Until now.

Until we were all put on a big time out.

The one thing that’s changed about me since I moved back to Vegas is the fact I can be alone. I am comfortable with me, when in the past I know I would have self-medicated, screamed and really lost my mind in the stillness and isolation. Or, I simply wouldn’t have been, leaving my world to be in other people’s worlds, regardless of the cost.

I sit in my thoughts and my stories and let them move through me. Process them.

This time has given me insight into me that I would never have achieved otherwise (or at least not in the time span like this).

It’s shown me I actually care about my well being.

I had a choice when this started. We all had a choice.

To move through and become comfortable or to rebel and avoid dealing with our demons.

Regardless of what I chose, the snow would melt. The balloons would deflate and time would keep on ticking.

I’ve grieved more than I’ve ever grieved for our people, for those whose lives were lost, for the racism which has been finally put in the spotlight of the world. I’ve gone from grief to anger to passion to activism and love.

I’m not who I was in March. I’m more of a person now than I ever was. I’ve started a slow dance with myself of more love and acceptance and unpacking my past to make a better future for myself and others.

And for that, I’m grateful.

The winter in Las Vegas has come and gone.

I powered through it fighting the temptation to call it a day when the sun sunk behind the Spring Mountains at the ungodly hour of 4 p.m., casting the Valley into darkness.

I’ve always rebelled against the early hour of sunset in the winter in Las Vegas. That, and the unforgiving dry stick-your-head-in-an-oven heat in the summer are the two worst natural aspects of Las Vegas.

The summer, I can live with.

But, the winter and its dark and short days are harder.

Even when I lived in London and the days were relegated to less than half shrouded in a cover of clouds or at best an icy cold winter sun, I managed. Maybe it’s because it was London and living in London was one of my dreams.

Las Vegas? That’s a different story.

Winter 2019 – 2020, I made it through easier than most.

I was in and out of the city starting in October, going from Thailand to Vegas to New York for my James Beard Dinner back to Vegas for my James Beard Dinner followed by the holidays and then living and breathing the vegan dining month I created and run in Las Vegas (this year marked its expansion into two new markets, too, so there’s that).

Then, it was on to Madrid and Paris. Then, just as the hour hand ticked back to old daylight life, I was in New York and Chicago.

I barley had a chance to register the late afternoon sunsets and hibernation in my living room in front of my gas fireplace before the daylight was brought back to me.

Then, when the pandemic happened, I became brutally aware of every ticking minute.

I watched from my couch as the sun crept behind the mountains later and later and suddenly it was 7 p.m. but it was still light out and my brain and body were confused, because holy-fuck-I-was-home-all-day-and-still-it’s-nearly-bed-time.

As the days stretched longer and the shutdown continued, I began a deep dive into me.

Sitting with Jess — six feet apart because I’m not messing around — on her front porch is the first time I’ve seen her in two months. The last time was when I was at her house filming her making a meal for Vegans, Baby.

She’s an accomplished chef and in the year we’ve known each other, we’ve gone through so many life changes together.

Relationships.

Careers.

Career-defining moments.

Cities.

Drunken-morning-after-milestone-events eating a terrible breakfast followed by just-past stumbling-regaining-our-composure-strolls through crisp fall days in Central Park.

Tonight, a lifetime has passed when we stand in our own bubbles of airspace.

I want to hug her. My arms have hugged exactly one person in two months. My arms know and miss embracing another warm body.

We instead smile and acknowledge the weirdness. The fucking pandemic.

We sit outside on plastic Adirondack chairs drinking wine as the last gorgeous night of spring displays her greatness.

Ducks waddle down her street, a cute coupe out for their nightly exploration of tufts of grass and puddles.

A hummingbird flits in and out of the yard.

The sun begins to set and the puffy clouds turn a cotton candy pink.

We talk. Catch up. Recall our lives pre-COVID. Pre-shut-down.

My brain kicks into the “if only” mindset as we sit together.

If only …

I had appreciated that meal at Esther’s Kitchen the night we were there drinking $40 bottles of wine and dipping fresh, homemade sourdough into tickle-the-back-of-your-throat olive oil.

I had taken the time to be aware. To be present. To have gone through New York and the Beetlejuice Bar knowing I wouldn’t have the option to go back anytime soon.

Savored being at an event where I could whisper in someone’s ear.

Cherished a moment of intimacy.

Sitting on her front porch, that same wave that has washed over me regularly since the pandemic happens again: I wasn’t grateful enough.

I was grateful after it was gone.

I miss hugs. And lingering dinners. And the excitement of a new crush. The anticipation of a first kiss. I miss making plans. I miss friends. I miss going to a grocery store without a goddamn mask.

But, I don’t miss the tightness in my chest. Feeling like I needed a minute.

Just. A. Minute. I would tell my mom on the phone. I just need a fucking minute and I can’t because I have to work and I have to make enough money to pay my bills.

The pandemic removed those pressures from my life. I suddenly had more minutes. I had no money, but neither did anyone else.

I had time.

And space.

And daylight.

And an empty calendar.

I. Had. Me.

This fucking pandemic has brought out the worst in people. I won’t even get started on the entitlement, the selfishness, the reckless advice being dolled out from armchair experts (ok, shit, I did get started).

It’s also brought calm, And mountains of gratitude. And self love. It’s made me appreciate my life. My breath. The strength my body gains each day as I move deeper into yoga poses. Cuddling with the animals who live with me. The smells of garlic and onions cooking in a pan. Being able to write. The time the sun sets. My friends. My world.

Yes, it took a pandemic to put a pause on the go-go-go of my life and force a hard re-set. And yes, I come from a place of utter privilege that my experience is one of blessings.

Tonight, with Jess, there was a feeling of old life. Of comfort. Of being in a pre-pandemic world that evolves around love and friendship and trust.

I’ve had this rare insight into myself the past few days. A renewed desire to write and write and write and take no prisoners.

It took a fucking pandemic, but here. I. am.

I scrawl across a fresh page in my journal, then date it 5/22/20, Zion National Park.

I take a deep breath, letting the fresh air push down into my lungs and close my eyes. The gentle breeze nudges the tendrils of bangs I didn’t manage to get up into a half-bun on top of my head earlier.

Leaning into the deep arms of an old tree whose veins leave divots in my skin, I let her cradle me and feel the energy from her, the Virgin River at my toes, and the giant orange and red mountain faces reaching to the sky in front of me.

I almost didn’t go to Zion today.

The pandemic has been a lot of things to me. It’s been a time to grieve and mourn for the projects I had and was so excited to pursue. It’s been a time to dust off my shoulders and put on my adult pants and reinforce the idea that, at the end of the day, the only person I can rely on is myself. It’s been a time to create rituals and focus on my health and wellness.

And sanity.

For more than two months, I’ve been pretty much stationary and the company I have kept is with my two cats and new pup. I walk every morning in an effort to keep a routine and honor myself and movement and Vitamin D.

My trip to New York and to Delaware to see my family came and went, and I sat at home dreaming of getting on a flight.

Dreaming of a lot of things.

Feeling the sticky heat of Thailand and the calls  of frogs; walking through Tompkins Sqaure Park in the spring sunshine, green leaves thick and rustling; of lounging at table on the sand, icy cold beers with sweat on the bottles, squirting lime into them and dipping chips into fresh-made guacamole in Puerto Vallarta; flakey bits of croissant dotting an old, wooden-slatted table on the sidewalk in Paris; sipping vermouth or tinto de verano on a terrazo in Madrid.

It’s funny what your brain lets you conjure when you’re in isolation.

It’s even funnier what it doesn’t.

I’m in Zion for a reason.

A reason I’ve been avoiding because … it felt uncomfortable.

I’ve had homework all week, which is a change because normally I’m the one giving others homework in my coaching. But, the table turned on me this week when a friend of mine who literally makes dreams come true decided he wanted to focus his effort on making my dream a reality.

Except … I have no idea what my dream is.

Less than a week earlier, we sit on the phone as I ramble on and on about the things I want in my life. What I think are my dreams.

To make Vegans, Baby national.

To launch a TV show.

To live in New York.

So, we start to dig in. Like, really dig.

But, I can’t narrow down a dream.

Am I broken? Is something wrong with me?

I tell him I always follow my dreams, which is true. And that they always come true. Which is also true.

“Then fear is holding you back,” he tells me.

I balk.

Nope. No way.

“You haven’t allowed yourself to really dream,” he says. “You need to think about your dream life. What it would look like. What it feels like.”

Sure, ok.

“You’re dream life without reality in the way.”

There it is.

So, I commit to writing a few pages of what my dream life looks like and suspend the reality of the current situation.

It’s really fucking hard.

I sit after the call and look over the prompt in my notebook.

“What does your dream life look like?”

What does it look like?

I’m supposed to just grab a pen and write and write, letting the dream expand and flow onto paper. But, I get caught in my head. Reality keeps shutting it down. Keeps reminding me that if I allow myself to imagine my dream life, it’s without the pandemic. Without social distancing.

My dream life includes lavish events, open borders, intimate conversations with passionate chefs in dark booths with homemade wine and plant-based food in far corners of the world. Celebrating talent. Celebrating steps people take to a more compassionate life. Loving deeply. Sharing. Traveling. Making the world a kinder, gentler place for all beings.

The pandemic and my fear of never being able to do these things holds me back from writing.

Instead, I spend five days playing out my dream life in my head. What it looks like. Where it takes place. I negotiate my dream. I problem solve with the current climate. But, I still can’t bring myself to sit and write it down.

May 22 is my one-year anniversary from being hit by a car and surviving.

Yes, I got physically hit by a car when crossing the street. In a crosswalk. With the crosswalk sign signaling it was safe to cross.

It was a lie.

Half-way through the first lane, an old, beat-up Kia SUV turns left. I freeze in the lane, glaring at him and waiting for him to stop … but he doesn’t. I realize I’m about to get hit and I jump back, not quick enough. The right side of the vehicle hits me and the tire pins my shoe under it, causing me to fall back in place.

I sit on the ground, a light May drizzle coming down. In utter shock.

I’m alive.

I’m also in pain. I take stock of myself.

I’m alive.

There’s no blood. No broken bones I can see. I’m in pain, but I’m alive.

The driver pulls over and runs out of his SUV.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. The guy is young, mid-20s at best. His brown hair is scraggly, shoulder length and he’s wearing a baseball cap advertising a meat company.

None of it matters to me. I sit there and blink up at him as the rain falls into my eyes.

“You fucking hit me,” is all I can muster.

I survive. I come out of the accident with a 30 percent compression fracture in my L5 (which was actually discovered months after the accident because no one seemed to have looked hard enough until the MRI), and a few other back injuries. I get put into three-times-a-week physical therapy and borderline molested by the massage therapist at the PT office.

He’s never had any other complaints.

Yet another time in my life, I have to recount to someone how my body was violated. This time, it’s in the hands of a professional I had no inkling I should not trust. They jockeyed my schedule around in the system so I wouldn’t have to be touched by this man, they changed the protocol with my massages, too. No longer would the door be closed when I was in the massage room.

I began to feel out-of-control in my life. I didn’t trust anyone. It was horrible to drive because I would always think a car was going to hit me. I would close my eyes and see an alternate reality — one where I’m laying on the street and my insides are crushed and I’m dead.

The PTSD and anxiety nearly destroy me as I maneuver through my post-hit-by-a-car life.

My feeing of safety is taken away from me and I grow more and more terrified of being alone and dying, as panic attacks always linger on the horizon of my new reality.

The pandemic, in a way, has given me back some semblance of control. It’s taken away my income. It’s paused my dreams I allowed myself to have. But, I have this curated bubble now and only let in what makes me feel safe.

I also start to feel shame, that I have to explain to people why I won’t go out, why I won’t dine-in, why I spent the first month basically holed up in my apartment downing bottles of Kick-Ass Immune Activator and Lorazepam. It’s triggered something else I tucked away and thought I had worked through via copious amounts of EMDR — my first panic attack in Thailand where I felt the walls close in on me and couldn’t breathe. I thought I was going to die alone in Thailand, my last moments being ravished by fear and knowing it was the end of my life.

I imagine the virus and getting sick and the walls closing in on me and the utter terror from that night floods back and lingers every day for two weeks, until I know I’m not sick.

It’s a real bitch to explain to people, so I don’t. Instead, I create my sanctuary, reading books and sipping hot tea and walking every morning and working out and breathing. Deep, deep breathing to remind myself I am capable of taking breaths and in that time, the anxiety dissipates. It’s the first time in a year I can breathe and be present.

So, when the date comes up marking the one-year anniversary of being hit, I allow myself to feel it … but not too much.

The homework assignment looms in my mind while the battle boils in real life versus the maskers and anti-maskers and I need to leave. To get the fuck out of Vegas and connect with nature.

I drive out late in the morning because even though I know it’s only a day trip, I still need to get my walk and workout in to keep my routine.

It’s windy and the sky over Las Vegas is gloomy, dust hovering in the atmosphere.

I try to tap into my inner-child. The girl who loved traveling. Who would delight in waking up on a Saturday to her father announcing they were going on an adventure and then hopping on the Metro and exploring DC.

There’s an energy around me today. One that feels defeated.

Earlier in the morning, I had a call with the woman who discovered me and brought me to New York. In the year-plus we’ve known each other, we’ve become close. She tells me about the changes she’s had to make to her work, and I realize the work I was doing with her is gone. And that work is such a big part of my dream.

As I drive towards Utah, I try to force myself to smile and it feels fake. The corners of my mouth refuse to curl upward.

Was this a bad idea? Should I turn around now?

I continue on, my car being knocked around by the wind hurling itself through the vast expanse of the blooming desert the road cuts through.

Then, the sky clears and becomes that perfect, deep blue. The landscape changes from desert to green, with bright, rust-colored mountains in the distance.

I feel it. Joy.

Zion is nearly empty, which means I won’t have to be near people. I’m delighted.

I grab a wrap at a local cafe and stuff it into my backpack and continue on to the park.

With no clue where I’m going, or what I’m doing, I decide to leave it up to what feels right. So, right past the turn for the scenic drive, there’s an empty spot. I turn and park and grab my backpack and water and get out.

I want to walk and walk and surround myself in nature. I feel my body craving it.

Tucked inside my backpack is my journal. For a few days, I’d thought about where I wanted to sit and write down my dream and all I could imagine was a place in nature, surrounded by peace and beauty and vibrant energy.

I cut across the street to a trailhead and read the placard. Easy. 100-foot elevation. Paved. Winding along the Virgin River.

Done.

I begin to walk down the path, feeling my body soak up the sun. Stopping to pause on bridges to notice the bubbling Virgin River and imagine where it’s coming from. Looking up to the towering rockfaces surrounding me. Listening to the wind rustle the leaves. Being present and aware of the life surrounding me.

Here, there are no anxieties. There are no fears. There is nothing but beauty and nature and Earth and it’s exactly where I’m supposed to be.

I wander along the path, a feeling of wonder enveloping me as I continue.

Finally, I spot a path to the river that’s free from people and make my way down to it. The soft, orange sand encases my feet as they sink in each step I take. Wind turns up the leaves of the trees, revealing a mint-colored belly to the thick, green tops.

On the bank of the river is a tree who’s thick roots wind and twist along it, finally diving into the water.

This is where I am going to write.

I thank the tree for permission to sit on her, and grab my journal and a pen and open it to the first empty page as I feel myself mold into the roots.

I begin to write.

What my dream life looks like.

The words flow. My hand flies over the paper as my dreams pour out of me, word-by-word, line-by-line.

I give myself permission to dream. Permission to suspend reality. Permission to feel what it feels like to have my dreams come true. Permission to see myself where I want to be without the pandemic grey cloud stopping me in my tracks.

I write four pages and then seal it.

And so it is.

The pages fly closed in the wind and I sink deeper into the cradle of the roots, looking up. Listening. Breathing.

It’s beautiful.

For a moment, tears build in my eyes as I sit there in intense gratitude for where I am, and for being alive a year later.

When I am ready, I get up, put my journal in my bag and continue down my path.

Lighter. Brighter. Dreams down on paper.

I drive home with the windows down, a smile plastered to my face. And, when I see the skyline of Las Vegas, I feel love.

I sit and ponder for a moment. NYC. It’s not even two full days, and yet two cross-country flights. The age-old debate ensues in my head briefly: is it worth that half-day of travel for less than 48 hours on the ground? Case in point: I won’t fly to Thailand from the US for anything less than a three-week stay because those trips wreak havoc.

And yet …

“Sure,” I respond. Because why not.

A few days later, an offer comes across to speak at an event in Toronto. The next week.

Again, I quickly ponder. Not even two full days. Two cross-country flights. 24 hours in between returning to Vegas and hopping on another two flights to Jackson Hole, Wyoming.

Sure. Why not.

And, so it has gone this year.

I Google Flight the world. I book tickets for quick trips up and down the west coast. When those Frontier offers drop into my inbox, I gleefully open them to see how far I can get for only $19 each way (Nashville from Vegas!).

I fly for work, I fly for friends. I fly to watch a tv premiere, snuggle with a pup and drink wine with one of my best friends.

There’s an excitement to jetting off on quick trips. I know they are tiring, but these little jaunts make me feel alive. Make me feeling like I’m doing something. Give me a break from my yellow-cushioned uncomfortable chair at my desk (why I have not upgraded, I do not know). It’s a pause on my desert, a reset. A little story in another city that is an addendum to my current trajectory.

Even when I arrive in New York, it seamlessly blends into my life and wandering the streets gives me a much-needed time out from lap tops. Sure, work comes with me, and much of my travels are actually for work, but lately I find myself saying yes to those long flights with short breaks. I look forward to the wifi on planes to get writing done and the silence from my phone because I keep that peacefully in airplane mode. To the window view. To new views in general.

In the next two months, I have nearly 20 flights (I swear, direct flights are becoming less and less of a thing in my world) and I’m excited about each and every one of them.

I can’t decide if I have an addiction to planes, the destination or the entire journey?

Yesterday marked six years since I arrived in Chiang Mai, Thailand. Six years since that first definition, that first identity of myself (aside from travel blogger and publicist) which defined me.

Expat. Digital nomad. Animal activist. 

I clung to those definitions throughout my time living abroad. Throughout the ups and downs of being an expat. It’s not easy living abroad; don’t let any digital nomad hawking books on how to make a bajillion dollars without barely lifting a finger in a foreign land let you believe it is. It’s hard. And there are cultural differences. And visas. And being so so so far from normalcy to contend with.

Every year on July 12 (the day I left the States) or July 13 (the day I arrived to my jungle city) I honor it with writing about cliché stuff, like things I’ve learned about life, things I’ve learned about being an expat.

Those days before that date, there seems to be an added pressure to come up with something. To figure out what my yearly message on life should be. As someone who clings to the fringes of travel blog life and has a myriad of content to write but never quite feels like writing it, it’s even more pressure.

I still travel. A lot. In fact, this year I’ve been on more airplanes than I probably have in years before when I was living abroad. But, hey, it’s for different reasons now. I’m not traveling to write, I’m traveling to live. And, that’s probably why I don’t blog that much anymore.

There’s thunder pounding outside as the sky darkens more here, taking me back to those humid monsoon nights in Thailand when the rain would thwack against my tin roof and I’d sit on my patio listening, chain-smoking, as the night descended and the rats and crickets and barking street dogs would take over the street.

Six. Years.

What does a post now consist of when I’ve been out of the expat loop for so long?

I’m not sure.

My therapist told me the other day to just freeform write about life to work through my newfound anxiety.

“Write?” I had scoffed. “I can’t write. It overwhelms me.”

But, writing is my lifeblood. It’s what powers me every single day. It pays the bills. It keeps me sane. But, I don’t write about me anymore. Which makes me sad, because there are so many stories whirling around in my head to share. Stories about hiking down to a waterfall in Bali alone this past spring and stripping and getting into the chilly water and breathing that fresh jungle air and watching the emerald green leaves quiver under the gentle breeze as a storm loomed higher up the volcano.

There’s writing about Belgium and processing it and reprocessing it.

There are stories about moments that make my heart swell in Las Vegas. Like when I’m on an airplane and sitting over the right wing of the plane (because that’s the spot to sit for gobsmacking views of the city on descent) and those twinkling lights against the black sea of the night sky make my heart tingle.

There are lessons I’ve learned that I want to share about running a business. Being an entrepreneur. Chasing dreams and putting them out into the universe … and having the universe listen.

Yet, I keep quiet.

That second memoir tingles my fingertips, sends reminders to my brain that there are things I want to say, moments I want to share and hope and pray that another agent finds me somewhere in the internet universe and writes me a love letter about the way I tell stories that way that first New York book agent did.

And, I still do nothing.

I guess that’s the thing about normalcy. About coming back home and getting into a routine. It may be nothing like my routine I had pre-Thailand and pre-expat life, but it’s still a routine, nonetheless. One filled with work and love and meetings and food and friends and life-shaping experiences.

I’m learning about balance. About putting myself first. About being true to me and while still honoring relationships I have, making sure that I’m happy where I am, too. I’m learning about how to handle this newfound anxiety (CBD oil) and working through whatever is triggering it from work to relationships to shit in my past I need to resolve.

I’m learning to thrive. To tap into my passion. To make that my life.

I guess what I want people to know about me in this moment is that post-expat life is different and beautiful and I cherish the moments I had because those very moments made me the person I am right now. An entrepreneur on the cusp of something I’ve only dreamed of with Vegans, Baby. A writer with so many stories deep within me that want to come out.

Next week, I head to Portland to speak at a vegan festival about how to be a leader for positive change, then in October, I’m heading back to Thailand to assemble a vegan tour of the country with my friends from Mindful Wanderlust and get ready to put that to market.

And, in the meantime, I’m going to try and write more. To reconnect with my heart. To honor that part of my life that’s been dormant. The journey is never-ending, no matter if I’m an expat or in my home country … and that’s a beautiful thing.

In fact, Las Vegas boasts some incredible spots that aren’t far from vacationers’ hotels, but an entire world apart from what people know and expect of time spent in Sin City. To get you ready for your unique Las Vegas vacation, check out the many hotel options at Expedia.com.

Where to head on a free day in Las Vegas?

Mt. Charleston

Photo via Flickr Creative Commons: Gary Sielaff

Those mountains in the distance on the west side of town (the ones you always see in the cityscape photos) are the Spring Mountains. And, that tallest peak is Mt. Charleston. A longtime spot for locals to escape the dry summer heat, it’s also a perfect trip to embrace some fresh air and nature. In the summer, the mountain brings hikers and bikers taking advantage of the non-scorching temps to explore the 50-plus miles of alpine trails, along with cute spots to rest (camping or the Mt. Charelston Hotel or Mt. Charleston Lodge). In the winter, folks head here to ski and snowboard courtesy of Lee Canyon Ski Resort.

Valley of Fire

The oldest state park in Nevada, The Valley of Fire was dedicated in 1935. Set in a stunning setting of orange and red sandstone in the desert, visitors here can explore areas that date back a whopping 150 million years. Grab a map and hit the trails that treat day-trippers to ancient Native American petroglyphs, off-roading and some more strenuous treks.

Hoover Dam

Check out the mechanism responsible for providing hydroelectric power to parts of Nevada, Arizona and California, and for creating Boulder City (an adorable town about 30 minutes outside of Las Vegas). The Hoover Dam, originally known as Boulder Dam, straddles the Nevada – Arizona border and controls the water in Lake Mead. Built in the 1930s, it’s one of the city’s major tourist attractions and offers tours inside the dam, as well as a visitor’s center packed with historical info. Visitors can simply walk around the dam, take a tour or make it a full-day and hike in from Boulder City.

The Grand Canyon

Photo via Flickr Creative Commons: Leonard Stabile

No trip out west is complete without visit the magnificent Grand Canyon. While a day likely isn’t enough, it can be done. This natural wonder’s first point of entry lies about two hours from the city at the West Rim and Sky Walk. But, those who want to check it out can also book a helicopter tour or small aircraft to experience its majesty.

Red Rock Canyon

One of the best climbing spots in the States, Red Rock Canyon is about 30 minutes west of Las Vegas and is one of the city’s most spectacular outdoor spots. From sandstone peaks to keystone walls, plus thrusts to hike and climb, people checking out Red Rock Canyon are treated to an up-close look at geology and the breathtaking rock formations that make up this park. There’s even a 13-mile paved loop for cars, bikers and hikers to explore. The park is loaded with trails for all levels, spots to picnic and more.

The tension I’ve been housing in my body for months (despite indulging in massages nearly every day in Thailand for two weeks prior) leaves my body. Apparently, I need this calm and respite more than I know.

As I walk towards the main building, a gorgeous dining area with a cozy table and cushions to sit providing a view of Bali straight on out to the water, I know staying here is one of the best decisions I’ve made on this three week break from Las Vegas.

I’m escorted by my driver who picked me up at the airport (a small fee, but honestly necessary so there aren’t any hassles to get to the lodge two hours from the airport), and arrive to the Monkey bungalow, a dark wooden room with queen bed, as well as a day bed. At the top of the room is a door that leads to a tiny walkway that leads to a private bathroom. Let me get this out now: I love open-air anything. Bathrooms. Showers. Bedrooms. Restaurants. All of ’em.

The bungalow is in the middle of the lodge’s organic farm and next to an enclosure housing two rescued monkeys, hence the name.

With clouds rolling in from the volcano towering above us, I drop my bag and head back to the dining area to feast on freshly harvested greens, tofu and a glass of wine.

I don’t lock the door. There actually isn’t a lock (but there are safes if needed), because it honestly isn’t needed.

Officially opened in 2005 by Linda (New Zealand) and Norm (Australia), the property originally simply served as their home where they raised their children. It’s grown since then and today is a place people from all over the world visit to enjoy retreats at the Responsible Tourism Award Winning property (so you know immediately I love anything that is responsible!). The lodge is impressive and incredibly sustainable, more so than many places I have visited in the past.

The Accommodation

Sarinbuana Eco Lodge is comprised of five bungalows ranging in size from single beds to family. They’re all hand-crafted from sustainable materials or materials harvested from the grounds or nearby, unique, gorgeous and  designed to give a rustic and beautiful experience complete with doors and windows that open and create a wall-free living space. Cleaners, laundry detergent, soaps and more are chemical-free, and there is no palm oil used in anything at the property (including no tea lights which contain the oil).

I spend two nights in the Monkey bungalow, a budget option at Sarinbuana. Made of 80-year-old Javanese hand-carved teak, it’s a perfect place for me to enjoy listening to the Sumatran monkeys, watch staff garden and marvel as the dark thunder clouds roll in down from the volcano which towers above.

My final night, I move over to Orchid, a breathtaking light and airy bungalow with sitting area, bistro table, balcony, outdoor patio, garden shower and an entire wall of doors that open up allowing you to touch nature.

It’s the perfect option if you’re a couple looking for breathtaking views and privacy.

The other three bungalows range in size, fitting anywhere from one to two people to up to five.

The Amenities

First and foremost, there is the restaurant — the hub of social activity and where you meet the other guests. Of course, I love it because they have vegan options. So. Many. Vegan. Options. Prepared fresh daily with spices, herbs, fruits and veggies fresh from their organic garden when they’ve got it, the restaurant serves up homemade Balinese specialties (you must try the rice bread!), as well as homemade soy milk, lemonade and desserts (most of which are vegan). The meals here are slow cooked or raw, sourcing items that don’t come from the garden in a 20 km radius around the lodge.

Every day, there is breakfast, lunch and dinner meal service during set times. At breakfast, you select your meals for lunch and dinner so staff can go pluck the fresh organic eats from the grounds. It’s vegan heaven with so many nutritious, gorgeous, nourishing meals and juices to enjoy. If guests are craving western eats, they have some options, but the menu is far too flavorful to opt for those dishes when there are the others to enjoy. The food here is incredible. I’ve never had ingredients so fresh before, and everything is made from scratch. Don’t skip the chocolate pudding — it’s divine. You can even learn how to cook some of the dishes in a cooking class offered.

Aside from the restaurant, Sarinbuana also offers trekking tours, nature walks, bike rentals, rides and more. While I opted to take the time for me to breathe, read, write and listen to my body, the other guests here all did tours and reported back they loved them.

Guests can also arrange for tours of the garden, which provides information on what they are growing and also how the lodge is sustainable.

The grounds here are beautiful, and include a massive yoga bale which opens up to jungle, at the bottom of which is a waterfall you can hike down to (it’s about 200 steps because I went down there, and yes, I counted).

There is also a massage bungalow and guests can book various massages in advance. I booked three. And they were all spectacular.

Sarinbuana is a place to disconnect. Bungalows don’t have wifi, AC or televisions. Honestly, it goes unnoticed. If someone needs to get in touch with reality (but why when this heaven exists?), there is wifi in the restaurant.

The Location

You’re in the jungle, baby. The gorgeous, breathing, pulsing jungle. Sarinbuana is located outside a tiny village about two hours (if there isn’t a lot of traffic) from Denspar airport. From here, there are plenty of jungle treks to experience, plus a bike journey that takes participants down the mountains via rice fields all the way to the shore. This place is made for peace, quiet and calm, and it’s location echoes that.

The Bottom Line

This is the first time in a long time I’ve truly listened to myself, listened to my body and allowed myself simply to be. There’s something about Sarinbuana Eco Lodge that encourages time to nourish oneself, to listen, to journey inwards and outwards in one visit. There isn’t anything about this property I didn’t love. Maybe because it delivered me exactly what I needed, and maybe because it truly is perfection. I think both.

Side note: Sarinbuana is in the jungle, which means there are insects (nothing poisonous, you’re cool) and little animals that hang out and co-exist (they are managed and kept from being pests in your bungalows with all-natural repellents). Be at peace with that if you’re headed here. Or really anywhere in SE Asia that doesn’t entirely shield you from the elements.

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There’s a calm as soon as you walk through the white archway of Away Chiang Mai Thapae Resort. Off of the party street (and feeling an entire world away) sits the new vegetarian resort. For me, after spending two weeks living off of a bustling road, the resort tucked into a quiet, winding soi is a peaceful haven complete with bubbling water feature and jungle bird song.

Offering 39 rooms ranging in size, this property is one of the city’s only vegetarian property boasting an organic, booze-free restaurant — Moreganic — inline with the owners who are Hindu. All white with blue art highlighting local attractions like wats, the colonial Lana buildings are a stark contrast to the wood and colored buildings which are the norm in the city. Here, bright and tranquility are the themes and it’s apparent every well-thought out step you take.

The Rooms

A higher-end property in town (you won’t find any backpackers here), rooms are lush with beds that are far softer than the normal Thai beds, covered in pillows you can sink into. Ranging in size from deluxe and suites (complete with a bathtub!), to family rooms, all are spacious and beautiful, tapping into the contrast of blues, greens and grays against dark wood floor and furniture.

All rooms come equipped with complimentary wifi,  32-inch flat screen televisions, robes, slippers, a mini-fridge and personal safe, as well as cozy balconies — four of which have direct access to the pool. They also provide a complimentary mobile phone for each room complete with free international calls to the USA and more, which you can bring around town.

The Amenities

Away Chiang Mai’s best amenity is its location, but the other amenities are also wonderful, too! There’s the pool with sun nearly all day and lined with lounge chairs (you can order mocktails, juices and more straight to your chair) that makes for a perfect time-out from exploring.

Designed to encourage health and wellness, Moreganic offers organic (when possible) cuisine available at the restaurant and also via room service. Be sure to check out the special offers for dining, too. Each morning, the resort offers a gorgeous spread of vegan and vegetarian offerings, as well as a full-service menu for lunch and dinner.

In addition, Away Chiang Mai provides an on-site concierge to help with travel planning, airline reservations and more. Also, the free phone is a major plus!

The Location

After living in Chiang Mai for years, the location of Away Chiang Mai is ideal. It’s centrally located near the Old City (it’s literally across the street), nearby both the Saturday and Sunday Walking Streets, the party bars of Loi Kroh and many temples. You can walk nearly anywhere you want here, and if you don’t want to walk, the city now has Uber (which is a definite deal if you have two or more people since the local transit – songthaews – are 30 baht per person.

The Bottom Line

I’d definitely stay at Away Chiang Mai Thapae Resort again. After spending two weeks around the city, this was the perfect spot to wrap up my time in my former home. It’s quiet, gorgeous with super comfortable beds (which I promise is a big deal in SE Asia). What I also loved were the staff — they were warm, friendly and very helpful. While I’d like to see a better understanding of vegan dining, there are definitely options here for vegans to enjoy gorgeous Thai food and healthy drinks.

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December 15, 2015.

I remind myself regularly of this date. When I’m up at night, my brain whirrs as I count the days, weeks, months and now years since I turned my back on expat life.

It seems like no time has passed at all, and yet all the time in the world has passed.

December 15, 2015.

It hovers over me at times, gently bringing back memories.

The cobblestone streets I’d traverse in Madrid. The afternoons sipping tinto de verano. 

The sunsets that turned the city sky pinks and purples at ungodly late hours of the night because we’re so far north.

And, before Madrid it was London and the flat whites at the coffee shop down the way from the flat I shared with a friend. The wine nights with girlfriends. The freeing feeling of getting on the Tube and going somewhere entirely different. Being with other travel bloggers and bonding. The experiences of living a British life, complete with panto.

And, even before London, it was the jungle. The elephants. The nuances of a Thai house free from glass windows. The odd expat family of Chiang Mai. The countless hours spent at cafes, chain-smoking and writing and writing and writing. The feeling I’d get on weekend afternoons when we’d be sitting outside, drinking Singha with old and young, and the skies would open and the rain would come crashing down on the tin roof, and I’d sit and stare at the strings of water falling from the roof to the ground, and think to myself, holy shit. This. Is. My. Life.

But then, there are the other memories.

The constant struggle to live in a foreign country (language, culture, visas). The flat in Madrid with the balcony door that opened to a cement wall. The days I’d go without speaking to anyone or seeing anyone other than the people in my Spanish class or at the gym. The lonely. God, the lonely.

The short days in London. The business that never launched.

The friends I’d made in Thailand and how quickly they’d turn their back or gang up on others. The smiles that shot daggers. The heat. The death I was almost constantly surrounded by, whether it was people or animals.

If anyone ever says to you expat life is unicorns and glitter,  they are lying. 

Expat life is beautiful. But, it’s also a struggle. A battle of good and bad that tugs at you, wears you down and then lifts you right back up.

On December 15, 2105, I decided I was done with that battle.

I wanted plants and pictures on the wall and to really unpack. To live somewhere I was actually welcome with no red tape, no culture clashes, no expat stress (because no matter where you go, there is always going to be some sort of stress).

It was a struggle. A sincerely hard decision because this site, d travels ’round, was built on my travels, my life as an expat. Giving up that status … did it mean giving up this site, too? Clearly, it didn’t …

But, that wasn’t the only struggle.

Leaving behind the world of expat life meant I needed to re-enter a world of life that is defined by having a decent income (hey, it’s pretty tough to be an American citizen, living in America, and doing the work I was doing without living with my parents and eating packets of cheap ramen).

However, I’ve always been one to leap and embrace. To put my faith in the universe.

So, I packed my bags and said goodbye to my Spanish life and the expat chapter which had long past worn out its welcome.

I decided to truly trust myself. To love myself. To listen to myself and not give in to the pressure of being identified as a travel blogger (which can be pretty damning since, hell, it’s who we are) and go home to Las Vegas.

I knew I’d land on my feet. I never imagined how beautifully the landing would be, though.

Two years have gone by and I’ve watched a bounty of travel bloggers, who started the same time as me, come to the same conclusion I did: it’s time to stop moving, to come home — whatever and wherever that home may be.

For me, home is Las Vegas. It’s been the only adult home I’ve known other than the road or foreign countries. It’s the place where I have a tight network of supportive people. It’s the place where the sun shines through my windows in my office and I’m warm. It’s the place where I look outside and see the beauty of nature reflected in the mountains. It’s the place where – after the shootings — I felt more tied to and head-over-heels in love with than ever.

Two years later, I’ve got a business which is coming into its own (totally humble brag, Vegans, Baby was just featured in the Los Angeles Times, thanks to the amazing PR team — one7 communications — I brought on to help grow my brand). I’ve elevated my writing career, not only publishing my first book, a guide to vegan food in Las Vegas, but also being a regular contributor to a local weekly magazine and other publications. I’ve dug my heels into the city in the best possible way.

And, I still travel. I make time for at least a month every year to explore the world, whether it’s heading to Mexico, back to London or checking out new countries (I finally explored Belgium) and next year, I already have three weeks in Thailand and Indonesia planned.

Today, I define myself as Diana Edelman, the founder of Vegans, Baby, a writer, entrepreneur and truly happy person. It took a hell of a long time to get there, a shit ton of countries, hostels, dorm rooms, heartbreaks, tears … and laughter and love and beautiful journeys to corners of the world I never thought possible.

I stare out the window of my United flight, the last (and biggest) Super Moon of 2017 is suspended in the early morning light, surrounded in a pastel cloudscape of oranges and pinks and purples.

Below, Belgium stirs. Vaulted roofs, green pastures, tiny winding roads witness to only a few cars play out below me as we slowly begin our descent into Brussels.

It’s been three years since I’ve traveled solo, truly solo, and it feels like nothing has changed when I look down at the earth below.

Only, everything in the world has.

The last time I was solo was in 2014 when I set out for a month to get some western infusion into my eastern life. I took leave from the elephants and exchanged the jungle for hostels, trains and my trusty Kelty, as I traversed select countries in Europe before I ultimately relocated to London half-a-year-later.

I was excited for this trip for about a minute, when I saw the super cheap airfare courtesy of Secret Flying, that took me from Denver to Brussels for a paltry $320.

Why not? I had reasoned with myself when I saw the deal. It’s been a year, and it’s time for that annual panto pilgrimage you promised you’d always do.

So, I booked it.

Because I made a silly promise to myself that first week of January 2015, when my friend Vicky and I sat in the upper deck of New Wimbledon Theatre watching my first-ever British panto, that every year forever ever, I’d come to London to see this very un-American theatrical experience.

But, everything changes.

I was excited for panto, and then I wasn’t.

Dirty secret time: I was never really excited for Belgium.

I’ve been in and out of this country often, but never actually stepped outside of the transit centers. First, I was here in 2002, when I took my first solo backpacking adventure. I needed to fly out of Brussels after cutting my trip short.

Then, in 2010 when I returned for my long-term travels, I found myself in and out of Charleroi numerous times. It wasn’t until 2014 I learned I had butchered the pronounciation of Charleroi, calling it Char-le-roi instead of Cha-le-wah.

Belgium was always a pass-through country, never a must-see.

After I booked my return trip to Thailand for February 2018, I got excited for that. Thailand is home, and I’ve found myself longing for that sticky air, elephants and cozy coffee shops playing Thai versions of pop songs while I bang away at my keyboard. Thailand stole Belgium’s thunder, and I hadn’t even meant for it to do so.

Even en route to Belgium, there was no thumping harder of my heart. No sheer excitement, anticipation.

Until I saw that moon and the European countryside below.

Then, joy filled my body.

I’m home.

On the plane, looking down onto the world splaying out below, I feel a familiarity of adventure. Of discovery. Of the unknown. I never thought I’d find it in Belgium, but I’d never opened myself up to it, either.

When we land and I walk down the jetway to the terminal, that solo travel gene reawakens. I navigate the train, the bus with determination, remembering how that initial frustration of being in a foreign country and not speaking the language transforms into a beautiful story.

As I watch from the train as we pass locals, vignettes of Belgian life pass before me. A woman in an office, at her computer. Two women standing in another office, talking. A man, alone in his office, mobile pressed to his cheek.

They are living their lives.

And here I am, living mine.

I’m far from my world. Far from my desert. From the life I created after I swore up and down I’d never have an American life again.

Funny, isn’t it?

For a brief respite, I’m treated to my former self, a woman with passion, adventure, a different ambition of sorts. For a little time, I check out of my Las Vegas life and embrace my old, traveling life.

The past two years have been a whirlwind. A beautiful monsoon of life and experiences.

And stress.

I’ve been so stressed and overwhelmed as I’ve grown and clenched my jaw so much that I literally changed my bite, misaligning my teeth.

I took the shooting really hard and got a nasty case of strep in October, following the shooting.

I’ve been so fixated on the growth of my business that I’ve let other things in my life — like my health and wellbeing — lapse because that’s how dedicated I am to living the life I want.

But, that’s not really a life, is it?

It’s wild to think how different my life is now than it was two years ago when I left Madrid. The map displayed on the screen in front of me on the plane reminds me of the proximity of different worlds, far from what I’ve grown accustomed to in Las Vegas. It reminds me how much I’ve grown.

When I walk into the biting winter air of Brussels after a quick nap in a hotel I fell in love with thanks to its street art theme (Hotel Meininger), that old feeling of travel intoxication fills me.

I’m wandering.

Sure, I’ve got Google Maps telling me where to go, but I’m still wandering, exploring. Open to everything as I make my way to the city center, pausing to take in street scenes, the smell of fresh baked pan au chocolat waft through the air, the people sitting outside drinking and eating, even though it’s freezing.

I make a promise to myself as I walk by historic buildings, look into cozy bars where people sip on their craft beers: I’m going to breathe. I’m going to be good to myself. I’m going to listen to my body, listen to my heart this next week and not push myself too hard. Not be tethered to work. To Las Vegas.

I’m going to be me. The me I loved when I was traveling solo. The me who knew the world was her oyster. The me who constantly reminds herself I can conquer any challenge that’s thrown my way. Hell, I’ve outrun the Turkish mob, I can certainly run a business and maintain my mental health.

Belgium is exactly where I need to be right now.