Choose Your Own Adventure

Yesterday I took Alegria for a ride along the beach. Pacas came with us—because why would she stay behind if there’s a ride happening?

It was later than usual, the sky moody and overcast, a storm hovering along the horizon to the north. Alegria was relaxed and her gait was easy. I fell into her rhythm. Pacas ran ahead, chasing seagulls. As we waded through the water Alegria listened to the waves—and to me—with ears like little antennae. By any objective measure, it was perfect.

And yet, I had this distinct, haunting feeling: This is not my life.

It’s a strange thing to think.

Of course it is my life. Who else’s would it be?

Most people would be envious of a Tuesday sunset ride on a beautiful stretch of Northern Baja coastline. I remember hearing a life coach ask, “What if you could do whatever you wanted on a Tuesday?” I realized at that moment - oh wait, I already do.

And yet, as beautiful as it was, it felt as though I had been somehow inserted into a role. I was enjoying the scene, but I was playing a part.

Have you ever had the sense that you’re living in a Choose Your Own Adventure book?

When I was a kid, I loved those stories. You’d reach a crossroads and have to decide: If you choose X, go to page 75. If you choose Y, go to page 58. Neither choice was “wrong”; they just led to different consequences. Different outcomes.

Lately I find myself wondering where I chose “Page 75.”

Was it when I decided to move to Baja full-time?

Was it when I found a neglected, skin-and-bones horse named Luna and decided to ‘rescue’ her?

Or was it much earlier, in the spring of 2000, when I sat at my computer and realized I was leaving corporate life for seminary?

And that assumes these were even choices.

What about the paths that were chosen for me?

My father’s cancer diagnosis during my second year of seminary.

A global pandemic that forced a pivot on a dime.

When I was 30, I assumed every path was available to me. At almost 55, the reality is that while many paths remain, I no longer have all the time in the world to travel them.

It reminds me of a campground timeshare presentation (I know, it sounds a bit crazy now - but we used those two free sleeping bags for years) my parents took me to as a kid. The presenter asked a string of questions: Do you want a pool? Horseback riding? Tennis courts? To every question, my answer was an immediate “Yes.” My parents whispered, “But you don’t even play tennis. You don’t even ride horses.” It didn’t matter. Why say no and limit the options?

It can be easy to spend a lifetime saying “Yes” to the pool and the tennis courts and the horses, collecting all the possible options like those two free duffle bags.

Which brings me back to the beach at sunset. I was happy. I was content. I was thoroughly enjoying the ride.

So why the niggling sense that I had accidentally chosen someone else’s adventure?

When I was a little girl, I didn’t know any grown-up “Erins.” I assumed I’d eventually have to change my name to something like Diane or Ellen to actually be an adult. Now, here I am—Midlife Erin—riding her horse along the Pacific. Turns out I am a grown-up, and I have been for a long time.

But it’s as though a part of me is still standing there with the Choose Your Own Adventure book in my hand, wondering what happened on the pages I didn’t turn to.

The movie Everything Everywhere All at Once is a more current example of this same phenomenon. Evelyn, the mother in the story, is given the chance to live through all of the other possible lives that could have been. All of a sudden, all of her options are open. She gets to try them on, one by one. In the end, she realizes that all those “better” versions of her life were just different flavors of the same thing. The only thing that actually mattered was the radical, messy presence of being exactly where she was, with the people she was with.

It can be easy to think that life is about keeping all the options open—or choosing the ‘right’ path. We spend decades collecting possibilities like those free duffle bags.

But what if, instead of collecting options, life is about choosing the right frequency?

What if the answer isn’t found in the pages we didn’t turn to, but in inhabiting the path we are actually riding along?