One morning, I took the ferry to Koh Phangan, an island in southeast Thailand. I stood on the top deck, watching the water, and found myself talking to a Thai woman from Koh Samui, the neighboring island. I was the first person she had ever met from New York— it was a lot of pressure to make a good impression for New Yorkers everywhere, but hopefully I nailed it? After a few minutes, she firmly told me I’d find love on the island, that it had a certain magic.
I laughed it off, telling her I didn’t think that was going to happen. But, of course, I went to the island with her words playing over in the back of my mind. Because when a woman you meet on a ferry tells you something will happen, it probably will, right? That’s how all good prophecies start. And while I did end up having a small island fling (more details available for paid subscribers, I only kiss and tell for a price!!) I ended up thinking about a different kind of love on my trip.
Today marks two months of solo traveling. While it’s been mostly wonderful, there have been difficult moments as well. There was one night on Koh Phangan as I sat in the back of an open van at 9pm with my bags, needing to find a new place to stay at the last minute, and I just started laughing into the night. I didn’t feel scared or lonely, but okay because I knew I would be able to figure it out. Traveling solo has not only made me feel comfortable being on my own, but I’ve rediscovered a new love for myself. That moment in the van, it was like I had split into two selves, and knew I was never truly alone.
I think, in the past, I didn’t like myself very much. I’d beat myself up easily for decisions I’d make, and put myself down. Lately, I don’t feel this way as much, but instead it’s like I’m taking myself on a trip after everything we’ve been through together.
While I felt a renewed sense of self on this island, it was definitely the bumpiest part of my trip so far. For example, one night, I tried to go to a party that was only accessible by boat since it took place on a remote part of the island, but when it was time to go, we were told the waves were too high and it was not possible to leave. Then, ten minutes later, we were told a boat was leaving from a different spot where the waves would be calmer. About 20 of us jumped into this boat at 2am, and while some water would wash into the boat on our way, everyone was a good sport about it. One guy played Titanic music from his phone. Then, it got bad.
The waves were so high and rough they couldn’t dock the boat, and suddenly they told us we needed to jump overboard and swim to shore in all our clothes and with our belongings. Oh, and also, the motor was malfunctioning and overheating so as we tried to jump out of this small boat, they kept yelling “Don’t touch the motor!” as it swung out of control. Finally, by 3am, we all managed to swim to shore. Everyone and their belongings were soaked, and we arrived at the party drenched. Still, we tried to make the most of it. We dried our things off, danced, and watched the sun rise. I sat on a rock and ate m&ms I had bought for the boat ride, mistakenly thinking I would have a chance to eat a snack and not swim for my life.
Finally, when it was time to go, the boats were still not allowed to take us home (apparently after my boat’s experience docking, that was the last boat out). So, we had to take a truck back even though apparently multiple trucks had flipped over trying to drive on this same road.
Finally, I made it back home, and vowed to myself to never make this much effort to go to a party ever again. I packed up my things, hurried to the ferry, and traveled to a different island, Koh Tao.
Here, I already felt a much deeper sense of calm.
It was a smaller island, known for its famous diving. I’m not allowed to dive anymore because of how it could affect my eye pressure, but I was happy to swim and snorkel. In fact, there was a point after my surgeries that I was possibly never allowed to swim again, and any time I am in the water I don’t forget this. I still can’t put my head under water and always bring goggles with me if I do, but it is enough even to float, to just be in the water and feel grateful I have this opportunity.
My first day on Koh Tao already felt different. I went for a hike with two guys I had met at breakfast, went swimming afterwards, and then we parted ways and I headed back to town at night. While still in my bathing suit, I passed by a shop that looked like a cozy living room from the outside. There was a group of people sitting on the ground, drawing and smoking weed. They invited me inside, and I learned they were in the middle of a “Puff and Paint” workshop. I sat down and drew with them, as an Israeli woman gave us instructions. I asked her if she was an art therapist, but she shook her head. She was an artist, but the owner of the store had allowed her to put on this workshop. I turned to the owner, Tess, also drawing in the circle with us- and asked her if she would be interested in a writing workshop. She said they had never done anything like that before, but sure, why not.
Immediately, I was thrilled— because I had been wanting to host a writing workshop ever since the first day of my trip. I had the idea when I was on a bike home, still jet lagged and delirious, but I remember thinking that I wanted to try and host a writing workshop as a way to help people heal from medical trauma. When I was in Bali, I was struck by all the different ways you could seek out some form of healing - through yoga, meditation, sound baths, cacao ceremonies, you name it. But there were no writing workshops, and I knew how much writing had helped me heal personally. This very newsletter has been a big part of that.
Weeks before I came to Koh Tao, I wanted to try to host a workshop, but got intimidated by coordinating a Zoom with the different time zones and put the idea on hold. And here, I had walked into a store that was allowing me to actualize this idea in just a few days.
Before I knew it, there was an official poster and everything.
The workshop itself was incredible. We had a great turnout, lovely, engaged participants, and I felt deeply excited about doing another one. While the focus wasn’t medical trauma, I experimented with some guided journaling to try and help foster a sense of community and a creative space.
In our group, we had not one, but two (!!) clowns. After I gave them a prompt about fear, Clown #1, who was visiting from Vienna, mentioned that with clowning, they are often asked to tap into what scares them, and then ask, how can you make this fear bigger?
I fucking loved this, because it very much embodies how I’ve been trying to go about this trip. If something is out of my comfort zone, I will try to go towards it and embrace it. In fact, this newsletter scares me. It’s still very new for me to share this openly about myself, about my eyes, and to be this vulnerable. It’s not at all what I’m used to. But I continue anyway because I know it’s a good fear to embrace, and I want to live as openly as I can. So, to dive into this fear even further, here is a short poem I wrote in the workshop. I have not written a poem since… my slam poetry days in college (no, I did wear a beret, yes, I did snap a lot) but here we go:
A man from Manchester told me I seemed like I was good at asking for what I want. I said I owe that to my mother
When I close my eyes I see myself floating, always floating, in the sea at night
A man with healing stones in Chang Dao told me my power lies in acceptance and transfiguration. He put the stones over my head and down my spine and told me I wouldn’t be afraid of the world anymore
That instead I would replace my fear with divine trust
Always floating, always floating
Feeling energized by Koh Tao, and with only a week left in my Thailand visa, I decided to go visit Khao Sok National Park. The views were breathtaking. There were enormous limestone formations towering over the water, and we camped in floating bungalows that opened right out to the dock. But when we returned from the trip, I went to the bathroom and had a proper look at myself in the mirror. My left eye looked terrible.
The thing is, it started looking bad two weeks ago. It was red and irritated, but when I sent photos to my doctors in New York, they told me not to worry about it. Except it still wasn’t looking any better, and how good could my iPhone pictures be? I decided that instead of continuing with my trip, I had to get this checked out. Within 5 minutes of returning from the camping trip, I hurried to the airport and flew to Bangkok so I could see my eye doctor the next morning (the only time he was in the hospital all week.)
When he examined me, I was seated beside the patient who went before me (a nice woman from Cambodia). He took better photos of my eyes, and told me the stitches from my implant surgery were irritated and needed to come out.
Where was I living in Bangkok? He asked. I wasn’t about to get into how I booked it to the airport from a camping trip only the day before, and tried to check in for my flight so quickly that I was still in my damp bathing suit at the airport counter. However, thankfully after deliberating with my doctors at home, they told me not to let him take out the stitches or my implant could be impacted. Instead, he gave me antibiotic / steroid drops and already I’ve been seeing a slow improvement.
But initially, I was terrified. I was afraid to go through a procedure in a foreign country, and it felt like I was face to face with what I had been fearing my whole trip: my eyes had caught up with me. I could try and see as much as I could, but eventually, something would happen.
Except, I was okay. So, I took the next few days to recover in Bangkok and rest instead of resuming my trip. In a way, I think it was a good wake up call. To slow down and not race to see everything out of fear. When anything goes wrong with my eyes, it brings up a lot of trauma of these past years. I go back to old patterns where I tend to panic and get down on myself, then buy a bunch of comfort food and disassociate. But while sometimes I hate the way my eyes control my life, I think they also have a way of telling me something. All my stress has a way of showing itself in my eyes, and it’s how I know when it’s time to change, or that something isn’t working. It’s the best and clearest way I can listen to my body. So, while the things it tells me sometimes scare the shit out of me, I’m also grateful that it’s trying to help me, and I’m doing my best to slow down and listen.
With that, after a few days of recovering, I have made it to Vietnam!
And, as legally required per newsletter, here is a photo I was sent of Oreo with his new friend, Jack.
By the way, if you’ve made it to the end of this and are interested in joining an online writing workshop that I would be facilitating in the future, please email me and I will send you more information!
Okay, that is all! Thank you so much for reading 💕
Love,
Julia