The driving. The never ending driving. During paddling season I regularly drive a few hundred miles a week usually with friends. But at times I drive that same amount solo.
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I envision the perfect mountain town with cooler temperatures and easy access to all of my favorite outdoor activities. Surely, happiness is found there. But I also wonder if contentment is hidden in the beauty of my own backyard.
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And each time I turned around I felt like a complete failure! Maybe it’s the universe’s way of telling me to pick another hobby. A safer hobby. A warmer hobby. In fact, each time I fail, I tend to go through the complete stages of grief. Seriously! I go through denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and the hardest one, acceptance.
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I can't help but dwell on the idea of where my relentless drive and fiery passion for doing something different, something unusual, despite my race, gender, small stature, and yes, even fear of heights. Although, when I look back, it's easy to realize it was primarily due to my mom and people like her who believed in me, even when I went through phases of not believing in myself.
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I have always lived in predominately all-white communities, and with that, feminine beauty typically meant white or light skinned, tall, skinny, long hair, delicate features, and ladylike—the epitome of Eurocentric standards. Sorry, not sorry, I don't fit those standards...
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