Follow the Bird: Notes to My Past (and Present) Self
Learning to trust warmth over performance.
When I was little, we played a game called Hot and Cold.
Someone would hide a treasure, and you’d wander around the room while they shouted clues.
“Cold… colder… no, freezing…”
“Getting warmer… warm… hot! HOT! You’re right there!”
I didn’t know then that I’d spend my whole life playing that same game — only the stakes were higher, and no one else could see the treasure I was looking for.
I’ve walked into so many cold rooms trying to feel warm.
Tried so hard to belong in spaces that made my soul shiver.
I’ve confused effort with purpose. Performance with love.
I’ve thought I needed to be discovered — when really, I was always being guided.
This is a note to my younger self — and my self right now — for all the moments I couldn’t find the heat.
And it’s a reminder to follow the thing that always leads me home.
❄️ Loveland Ski Area
I was sixteen. Working in the ski shop with my mom. I didn’t like to ski. I didn’t like being cold. I didn’t understand why everyone else seemed to love this so much.
But I wanted to belong.
I wanted to be good at it, good at something, good enough to be included.
And every day I came home cold — in my body and in my heart.
What I wish I knew:
You don’t have to love what they love.
Wanting warmth isn’t weakness — it’s wisdom.
You can trust what doesn’t light you up.
🔥 The Dive Shop, Mexico
The same year Ben died, my family went to Mexico. I was hollowed out. But then my dad surprised us — “You can take scuba lessons if you want.”
And something lit up in me.
I came alive in that dive shop.
I loved the study book. The breathing gear. The hush of the underwater world.
I made friends without trying.
This was an entelechy moment — a soul truth.
When you feel warm, take note.
When your body says yes, believe it.
This is the path. This is the guide.
❄️ Bowdoin, Freshman Year
I walked onto campus hoping someone would tell me who I was.
I wanted to be liked. To be seen. To be small and radiant at the same time.
But I mostly felt out of place — cold in a sea of confidence.
What I wish I knew:
Belonging that costs your voice isn’t belonging.
You’re not too much. You’re not not enough.
You’re just early. Keep going.
🔥 The Trio at USM
Years later, I was in grad school at the University of Santa Monica, sitting in circle with two others. We shared honestly. We laughed. We cried. We were weird and wide open.
This was warmth.
This was real.
You don’t need to be impressive to be radiant.
You don’t need to be chosen — just witnessed.
❄️ San Francisco
There was a trip. Too much alcohol, too much sun, too much reaching for something shiny.
I woke up sunburned, overdrawn, and still empty.
Cold. So cold.
🔥 Point Reyes
I drove north. Found a quiet rental. And I walked.
It rained for days and I didn’t care. I walked through it.
I met owls, deer, seals. I came back to myself.
This wasn’t a moment of arrival.
It was a return.
When you feel far away, get outside.
Walk until you remember something true.
The bird always knows the way.
🕊️Follow the Bird
For me, the bird is a red cardinal. It reminds me of Ben.
Of spirit. Of love that doesn’t die. Of something wiser and wider than my fear.
The bird shows up when I slow down.
When I stop asking “Am I doing it right?” and start asking “Does this feel warm?”
The bird is your inner knowing.
The heartbeat under the noise.
The one who whispers: You don’t have to push so hard. You’re already home.
❄️ Albany, Today
I’m writing this from another hotel. Another conference.
I came hoping for a miracle — a spotlight moment. The one where someone famous sees me, chooses me, tells me: This is it. You made it.
But it feels cold.
It feels like effort. Like desperation. Like trying to perform my way into being.
So I’m listening now.
And the bird says:
Go find a library.
Watch a woman’s film.
Take a solo walk.
Get quiet.
Let it be enough.
I don’t need to be chosen today.
I just need to choose warmth.
To follow the bird.
🪶 Your Turn
What’s your bird?
What helps you find warmth when the world feels cold?
Share in the comments — or write a letter to your past self and tag me if you share it.
Let’s tell each other the truth. Let’s guide each other home.