A Wild Life

A human experience on Earth. .

recent posts

  • Sad Girl

    Sad Girl

    Depth with purpose.

    My sister always told me I liked sad things. Especially after praising impactful films like The Pianist or sending her TicTok videos of abused animals being rescued. My attention has always gravitated towards suffering in some way. My theory is because:

    1. I care. I really care. My life resume reads- long time wildlife rescue volunteer, nurse of ten years, and unoffical pro bono therapist to family and friends.
    2. I’m on the spectrum. Naturally I feel deeply and have a strong sense of justice.
    3. I’m a writer. This week I finished watching East of Eden on Netflix and I couldn’t stop thinking about the loneliness, betrayal, and all consuming anguish John Steinbeck had to had known or witnessed in his lifetime to write that story. In the end, I sat on the couch with emptiness in my chest and pride of his expression. Mice of Men is ironically one of my favorite books I read in high school. The Things They Carried, by Tim O’Brian also deserves a shout out.

    Actually, I’m not just a sad girl, I’m a deep girl. Weddings, birthday cards, poetry, and orange in the sky.

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    Many times I’ve wondered how easier life would feel if I weren’t as deep. I’d probably have more connections or a smoother relationship with all things casual. Maybe I’d feel like I belong a lot more. But even then, I’ve decided that I like my depth and the outlook on life it gifts to me everyday. My Spotify playlist would probably suck too. Noah Kahan would understand.

    Often I get down about the world. Images of semi dressed hungry children surrounded by rubble or animals without a place to go due to deforestation are examples of my internal slide show. I hope non-profit work is in my future. If I died tomorrow, I would be disappointed in my efforts to make change and reduce suffering. I’m working on my next move to make it happen.

    My earliest memories were growing up in southern Mexico. My young eyes remember the towering vegetation looking down on me – the kind that you’d find in the jungle, along with the singing black birds dancing into the humid cloudy sky. I remember looking down to my tiny pink plastic sandals as I walked the parks with my mother, usually facing a grand colonial church that sounded the bell for all of town to hear. Life felt beautifully simple, but I never forgot the poverty either. Barefoot unshowered toddlers selling pieces of gum for 10 cents a piece. Families sheltering under huts made of a few pieces of wood and aluminum roofs to hide from the heavy rain. Lumps of thick blankets along the cracked pavement that held sick patients waiting to be seen outside the community hospital. Dead dogs on the side of the road.

    Life is an aching heart if you’re paying attention.

    But fuck it, I want to see. I want to witness it all. Then I want to do something about it.

  • So I Ran a Marathon

    The Real Race

    26.2 in the books. Well, on Strava.

    To be so honest, the race itself was HARD. The last 5 miles were torture. Running across the finish line I couldn’t feel my legs. Like that movie scene where the fading runner can’t hear anything but a distant rumble of cheers and a few heart beats, unaware of anything else.

    Four hours of running later, there was blood on my inner thighs (oops, girl stuff) and chaffing on my inner arms and torso from my hydration vest. My stomach demanded I never eat a single Gel ever again. Headache was a 9/10. And those pictures.. my god. I was humbled. I couldn’t walk normally for the next 4 days.

    Traveling to Long Beach for the Marathon left me with a not so nice dent in my bank account along with a purple medal that established I was a finisher.

    My training block of over 4 months had me feeling like both an Olympic athlete and a total disaster. I recall a 9 mile run that felt like cake and a 2 mile run that left me crying in my car. Some mornings started at 4:30 am to hit the treadmill before clocking into work and many nights sleep came around midnight.

    Injuries, stomach upsets, body changes, sock science, hydration, recovery, food intake, fueling, coffee, bleeding feet, gear, CARB LOADING, time management – all of it was trail by error. Scars on my belly and chest along with a peramanalty damaged toe nail forever prove it. Shout out to Runna, my AuDHD brain thanks you.

    Morning of the race, I found myself with shaky hands struggling to pin my bib onto my shorts. Looking into the bathroom mirror, the big emotions surfaced. Since the summertime I had completed 650 miles solo. I learned, struggled, crashed and finished on my own. The largest monster was slain. I had already won.

    When I clicked purchase to run this marathon, I did it to reclaim my identity – I’m someone who shows up. Someone who shows up with its dark, when I’m tired, under the hot sun, and especially when I don’t want to. I got me. As a 31 year old female looking to rebrand her life, I just needed to know that no matter what direction I pivot to or what does or doesn’t happen, I got me. I will not fall apart and the world doesn’t end even when it feels like it. Pain is just pain and discomfort is something to lean into. Success is whatever it means to me, and I’m low key slightly cooler now.

    This was the real race.

    For anyone considering running a Marathon or training for one, I only have a few words of wisdom. Skip the Coca Cola flavored Gel. Trust me.

  • 2025

    I love asking people what they want the New Year to bring. Often this question is seen as a burden or bore, sometimes met with sarcasm or disdain. Interesting, no?

    I’m enchanted by people’s hopes and dreams. Tell me what you most yearn for. Tell me what you can’t wait to walk away from. What did 2025 represent on a worldly scale? A spiritual one?

    Who did you become. Who did you love. Who did you loose. Who did you love and loose?

    Perhaps the question is too intimate, too important to say aloud.

    Which is why I must continue to ask.

  • Winter is for Reflection.

    My hiking shoes shuffled along the dull dry path with only my footsteps and nearby chirps to be heard. Grey clouds filled the sky. It’s extra cold this winter in California.

    The crisp air was almost as loud as the nothingness felt around me. The world was at a pause and life was in hibernation. I felt part of the wild that surrounded me; numb, still, and unresolved.

    I couldn’t help but reflect that life is also harsh, bitter, and at times defeating. All that is alive is always looking to survive. To shy away from discomfort and danger is intuitive and necessary. Life is fleeting. It is only a moment after another. This Gray Squirrel I came across, sadly had no more moments left to live. I hope it had also been able to experience the more joyful seasons of life other than winter.

  • Mushroom Season

    Fall is often the season of falling. Leaves depart branches and softly settle onto cold ground. Light is brief in the sky, dominated by the darker quiet. What feels like a season of pause is also one of rebirth and color. Beneath the foliage or along sleeping logs, fungi of many shapes, colors and textures arise. Their discovery a joyful contradiction of Fall. Mushrooms are the life that appears surrounded by what is dead. They are a reminder of what awaits in the spring.