Two thousand and sixteen was supposed to be the year. Love, marriage and, if my fiancé had his way, a baby in a baby carriage on its way before the year was through.
But ten days before the wedding, a storm rolled in. I was swept up, like Dorothy in the tornado, tossed around and spat out into an unrecognizable reality.
At 32, I’d been on a very socially encouraged trajectory. With my fiancé’s support, I had left the 9-5 to build a freelance career, giving me the flexibility to manage our household, plan our 170-person wedding and, in the future, raise our children.
The future looked bright, in the traditional sense. Though I had sacrificed a lot.
I’m happiest in the mountains. His business was city-based, so that’s where our life was going to be. In exchange for giving up my dreams of mountain greatness, I would get a family and society’s stamp of approval. I had made peace with that.
But acceptance was only skin-deep.
I’d been having anxiety attacks. I developed an uncomfortable cracking in my jaw, from clenching and grinding in my sleep. On quiet evenings eating dinner alone while he worked late, sharing his talents with important clients, that repetitive pop from my jaw seemed to echo through the house with every bite of leftover curry.
But I had committed. In the same way I did on the trails and slopes, I would charge forward.
Then, ten days before the wedding, the universe did for me, through my fiancé, what I had been unable to do for myself.
I got dumped.
In the moment his blue eyes locked on mine and I heard the words “I don’t think we should get married,” my heart shattered into a million pieces, along with the picture frame I threw that smashed on the oak floor.
I felt like I was hovering above a crime scene, watching my spirit split in two. One part lay broken on the ground amidst the glass, the other hovered, waiting for instruction.
August 6th came and went. No pre-wedding dip in Ivey lake with my bridesmaids. No vows under the shadow of Mount Currie. No awkward dance my dad and I had laughed about.
In the aftermath, amid tears, last-minute cancellations and urgent communications, I plotted my escape. I wanted to distance myself from the hopes and dreams of my old life.
The mountains were calling, as they do to so many seekers and runaways, and my unbound soul was now free to answer.
In October, instead of boarding a plane bound for India on honeymoon, I drove up the Sea to Sky.
Since then, Whistler has been a balm on a gaping wound. The peace I’ve found on hikes in Brandywine Meadows, Lost Lake rides and Saturday morning sessions reading ski magazines at Alpine Cafe, quiets the dark chatter in my mind.
A friend wrote to me recently: “Life certainly has no shortage of twists and turns, in fact I think that life is the twists and turns, the rest is just the stuff you try to control in between.”
I think of this when I’m waiting to get into yoga on a Friday night and I’m passed by a wedding party. When, after a dozen left swipes, Tinder can’t find anyone new around me. When I find myself in the midst of conversations focused on property ownership, engagements and children.
I remind myself there is no right or wrong way to do life. That it’s OK to be alone. That when asked “And you?” I can unashamedly answer that I just moved to Whistler, I rent a room in a house with three housemates, I’m single and I’m stoked about life.
Last year was exactly the year it was supposed to be. It’s the year I got my heart broken, followed my dreams and found myself in the mountains.
Welcome to The Squamish Chief's and The Whistler Question's new monthly feature of personal essays from our community. Our goal is to collect tales from all over the valley to showcase the compelling characters in our midst. If you’d like to contribute please email [email protected].
