A Break-Up in Bali
In my previous post, I wrote about breaking up with safety in Bali. That was eight months ago. It took eight months to click...
I was lying on the side of the road in the highlands of Bali known as Kintamani—a small district/village before heading into Mount Batur. Mere moments before, I had flown off my bike going downhill after clipping the raised lip of the asphalt road. Figures…after all, I can be a walking liability. In this case, a riding liability.
I caught air, alright; promptly hitting the road and landing on my left sternum. I walked away with deep cuts, major bruises, and impact, but no broken bones or broken spirits. If anything, I completed the ride because I’m me. Granted, days later, I formed a monster hematoma on the inside of my right thigh that lasted six weeks. I feel lucky it wasn’t anything serious. I didn’t feel the need to see a doc, but truth be told, I should have gotten that thing drained.
Despite the gratitude since this could’ve been far worse of an accident, I was majorly bent out of shape about it that evening. I was utterly pissed off that I flew off a bike. I was utterly pissed off that somehow, I fell into this trap that nothing bad would happen to me, at least, not physically.
I couldn’t help but wonder: why did I let my guard down?
Come to think of it, eight months later, maybe that was a good thing.
Finally, living life with my guard down? Living life as if the other shoe isn’t going to drop?
Isn’t this something to be excited about?
Isn’t this what progress looks like after years of surrounding myself with unscalable, 10-foot steel walls surrounded by scaffolding? A cute little sign written with a pink marker and bubbly handwriting that reads: “Keep out. Beware of dog.” Granted, the dog was Sophie—the type you could dropkick due to her small stature despite her fierceness and delusional thought that she was ten times her size.
All of it, just to protect my heart.
Over the years, I’ve convinced myself that my heart couldn’t handle another heartbreak. After all, I’ve had too many for one lifetime.
Anyway.
There have been other bike rides without incident: like the one in Hanoi where I rode alongside the organized chaos of motorbikes and steep hills through Banana Island and that solo ride of my life along the Royal Coconut Coast on the east side of Kauai with cliff views equivalent to that of a cat’s meow. I can close my eyes and still, fondly, remember that ride. So why the fall now? Or, was I due for one?
As I mulled over my fall, I needed to remind myself to be gentle and kind; and take under consideration the physical and mental shape I was in. Fun fact: I was still recovering from Covid and physically, I was weak and mentally foggy. That’s right ladies and gents, I managed to test positive for Covid two days into Bali.
And, the reality is, shit happens, as we know it. Covid or no covid, guard up or down, there was no guarantee that I wasn’t going to get hurt from a bike ride or all matters that concern the heart.
If that’s the case, what the hell was I doing holding onto this notion of safety? Excessively, in my case.
Days later, wincing in pain, I remember feeling compelled to break up with safety.
I didn’t know exactly what that meant or how that would look but as time passed and controversies arose, it became increasingly clear that safety also known as protecting my heart at all costs plagued me with self-doubt, which inevitably led to self-sabotage. It was always safer to pick a fight, talk myself out of it, and be done with it.
Is this really the way to live? How much longer was I going to be a self-fulfilling prophecy perpetually?
I have been warned in the past, sternly. Typically, it went through one ear and out the other.
On the flip side, after everything, can I blame myself for wanting and needing to be safe at all costs?
In these moments, I feel for myself just like I would for anyone who has experienced loss, trauma, and heartbreak. Then, there is traumatic loss, which from experience, I can attest that it adds a layer of complexity where I can’t even begin to explain how that plays into coping with grief. If anything, the trauma delays the grief process.
My overzealous need to keep safe has shackled and held me back. Over the years, I have broken my own heart multiple times by choosing safe decisions over great ones. My censor scrutinized every move, every thought, and every decision playing risk management. Throughout the years, there have been glimpses of myself challenging my censor. I can tell you that during those times, I felt the freest and my heart, the happiest.
But, inevitably, I would return to my safe place with 10-foot steel walls and scaffolding because of its familiarity. I would, again, reluctantly, surrender to the want to protect myself despite intelligently knowing that I was strong enough to withstand any storm. In trying to keep myself safe, I lost trust in my own strength and my ability to handle whatever life threw my way.
The irony in all of this is that I wouldn’t have known to expand my capacity to love let alone understand and love deeply as I do without the losses, the intense mourning, and the ongoing living breathing grief. The very thing that broke my heart repeatedly taught me to love in a transcending way. Yet here I am, holding onto my need for safety that hasn’t served me for as long as I can recall.
Was I never going to get back on the bike again because of a fall? Of course not.
Was I never going to love again because of my loss? Of course not.
But according to my censor, I wouldn’t get on that bike again or love again because there’s a chance I’d get hurt, and then what? I used to believe this wholeheartedly.
It took me a long time to abandon my censor. It took a physical injury as in something tangible in a far, far away land for me to recognize that it was time to walk away from overly protecting myself.
I had to get here on my own; on my timeline; and will. With this, these would be some of the last times I would allow self-doubt to become self-sabotage.
Just as I was wrapping up Bali and feeling good about leaving the need for excessive safety behind, I fell out of a snorkeling boat on Nusa Penida Island and hit my arm, leaving a gnarly bruise. That definitely sealed the deal.
See? Rarely was anything ever safe to begin with, but oh so very worth it: the majestic scenery, unforgettable moments, so much passion, so much love, and so much life—a vibrant one at that.
No doubt, I want more.
Just, maybe next time, I’ll pack a little extra padding for those inevitable falls.