Real Talk

It was the first time I’d ever cracked into a fresh whole crab. It had been pulled straight from the Washington waters just days before but I barely remember it. The salt I tasted came not from the creature whose flesh had only known the salty sea but from my own tears. This had been one of the longest and most awful weekends of my photography career spent side by side with my newly minted ex-boyfriend. It involved back to back weddings in different states, 100 degree weather without shade, the most thankless bride I’d ever met, cut knees, sleeping in what we called ‘sex sheets’ as they’d very obviously just been slept in by the couple we were photographing, finally learning how to open a bottle of beer with out a bottle opener in the dark on a dock, multiple 5am days, driving back across three states with stops along the way long enough to get locked in a bathroom in the middle of nowhere Montana and to see a game warden about a certain piece of Idaho wilderness. Sitting on the splintered wood next to the boy who’d broken my heart eating the crab I couldn’t really taste, I wondered why. Why was I doing all that I was doing? What was it for? What was the point? Tears streamed down my face and for a moment I forgot my heartache over this specific complicated human and felt the heart of the matter. I don’t think I could quite put it into these specific words in that moment but my body didn’t need language to understand: I was building a life I did not want to live. And so my heart fully broke.

Broken I like so many began the process of rebuilding myself and my life (are those two separate things?). It got worse before it got better as it so often does. We break and then when we didn’t think it was possible we somehow break even more (can we really hold so much?). I’m sure the pieces of me began to come together before I could really see or feel it, but on Christmas day, one of the final days of that year, I went for a run in the morning and I saw the dew on the branches. I stopped. It was backlit by the light reflecting off the lake I was running around. I remember the clothes I was wearing. I remember the feeling in body. I felt whole again. I could see the world again. I could be in the world again. I took a photo. I breathed in that moment. It stands in my head as a marker of the before and the after. The Tori who was and the Tori who is.

I keep making the mistake after periods of massive growth and transition of thinking I’ve reached a place of arrival. I’ve grown. Yay! Celebration. Joy. Phew! So glad that is over. I know I will have to grow again but it will be different. I will never go back. My path is linear from hereto forward. I have mastered x, y and z, they will never be tested again. I am now here on the right and I will never be lured by the left again. And then I’m blindsided when all the things I thought I knew and learned are pulled out from under me like a rug, or like my clumsy first grade self that attempted a cartwheel on the pavement only to find herself stunned and squarely on her back with the breath knocked out of her. The path is not linear. It never is. It never will be. (And really would we want it to be? Somedays my answer is yes).

As winter and spring did their dance with one another this past year I finally surrendered to the slowness that had been beckoning me. I had been fighting it for so long. I almost chose ‘Go Big’ as my words for this year because that’s where I wanted to be. But which I? My true self? Or the self I impose on me based on some arbitrary expectation of who I think I need and should be at 34? But hadn’t I already changed and slowed down? Wasn’t that what I did after I cried over crab? I felt mad. Cheated. This is not the life I had signed up for. 

This is not the life I signed up for. A thought on repeat this August. My life began to speed up this July. I thought I was over and through some things. That I had done the work and therefore I was now getting a neat bow for all that hard work, all those tears, the sweat, emotional strife, therapy, money, for all that the last year had asked of me. July was mostly bliss and I embraced it. I blasted the music in my car at full volume and danced at stoplights. I could barely sleep at times I was so happy to be awake. I camped a lot. I began to run. I cooked vegetables straight from the ground with creative fervor. I dug my hands into the earth tending to beets, broccoli, squash, cauliflower and marveled at the beauty of the dirt that clung to the cracks of my still young hands. My skin took on a golden hue from days out of doors. Every night was spent in the company of friends and loved ones. There was a rosy tint to my cheeks that came from more than the sun. And I was ever so grateful. I had forgotten just how good this life can be. But as it happens there was no bow. I had begun to speed up. I had abandoned slow. I am glad I got lost in the bliss but I can also see that I abandoned myself a little in there too. Because in the end I chose the word evolve for 2018 and evolution asks us for time.

In the last few weeks, really all of the last 52, my subconscious has been asking what kind of life do you want to live? Do you want to make a lot money? Do you want to be successful? Do you want to live on a farm? Do you want slow mornings? Do you want children? Do you want to be videoing your life in 15 second bursts constantly? Do you want an editorial calendar of photos and snippets of thought? What about creating the perfect grid? Do you want to be a wedding photographer? Many of these questions I don’t have answers to. But I do know what I would do every day if I could. Read, run, write, garden, photograph and cook for people. I do many of those things daily as it is. Maybe you’re scoffing at how luxurious that sounds. Isn’t that what we all want? Tori, there is health insurance, and mortgages, and 401ks, and college savings, and college loans, and, and the washer is breaking unexpectedly, and we have to go to that cousin’s wedding on the east coast that we don’t want to go to, and laundry, and picky kids to feed, and the ski trip to save for, and never enough sleep. Yes, yes there is. But what if we’re living all wrong? What if society has sold us a lie?

The minute I realized the rug was pulled out from underneath me I decided I was finally going to do ten things I have been thinking about for a year(s). Cookbook pdf, set up that newsletter, #versatileveg, rebrand my wedding photography, women’s portraits, donate 1% of my profit to a non-profit, book that trip to Italy with my mom, build my food photography portfolio, photograph more farms, cut my hair, die it, get a tattoo—all worthwhile things. All things I will do. The truth of the matter: I was reacting, I was running, I didn’t want to lie on my laminate floors and feel all the things that hurt. I literally tried to hike myself into numbness and when I finally succeeded I found myself 8 miles in at a glacial lake I could not actually see. So I sat there and I cried and I took a nap. I came home and sat on the couch with a glass of wine next to a bowl of peaches in the dark and I let myself mourn what I had lost and what I did not understand. I did it again another night. And one morning. And one afternoon. And I will probably do it again.

A friend pointed out to me last week that the majority of what I do is an extension of myself and my heart. Maybe, she suggested it’s hard to do all those things like rebrand and change my whole business and life because I’m not actually ok right now. Oh. Oh. Perhaps it wasn’t the time to move full steam ahead. My body knew what my mind did not. My friend was right. I keep trying to be over there in this place where I think I should be, want to be, need to be, hope to be, instead of where I am. I hardly ever sit exactly where I am. Instead of sitting with my own suffering and being curious towards it I had feverishly hiked away from it. What can it teach me? If I build these ten things, not only will they be a distraction, but then I can prove my worth. Why do I really need to be full? I am valuable because I built this business and finally became the doer, the act-er, instead of just the talker about-er. Am I still not enough?

Sitting in the dark next to that bowl of peaches I made a decision. We get to decide what kind of lives we want to live. Again I feel the gentle tugs of stillness and slowness. They’re at the hem of my dress. They’re the soft fingertips on my shoulders. They’re the hands soothing my temples. They’re a quiet urging that has grown so loud it’s the white noise of my every minute. Do the things you know you want to do. Do them. Be present in them. Focus on them. Be intentional. Don’t think about the should. The newsletter you should create. The scalable business model you need to build. The family you long to create. Do the things you are already doing. The wedding clients you already have. The families inviting you into their homes this fall. And then write. And write some more. And photograph. And run. And be curious. And spend hours tapping your keyboard and with your pen and moleskin and your mind. Go to the library. And cook. Cook from all your cookbooks. Have everyone over. Make a cake without a recipe. Bake bread until the flour is permanently lodged in the cracks that winter will bring to your hands. Do the work that you have well and with intention. Be more present than ever before. Stop being exhausted from all the responsibility of never-ending achievement. Never-ending goals.

Even as I write this I feel so privileged. There’s also that fearful voice that worries I’m getting left behind, telling me, I have to do all the things. If I don’t I’m just spoiled and not good enough and I should be able to be and do more right now. We get to choose. We get to choose. We get to decide. My 401k may continue to suffer. This may be a consequence. But what might I learn from stillness? From sitting down to write with out feeling guilty. Or creating photos for the sake of creating photos. Or just how many more lunches might I get with my mom? Will I finally bake that chocolate cake I have wanted to bake for 2, maybe three years? It’s on my vision board for goodness sakes and yet for some reason I bake everything but that chocolate cake. I just made peach scones. Another friend asked me why I have not baked that chocolate cake yet? It never feels like the right time. Chocolate cakes don’t have seasons, not like plum tarts, and peach galettes or tomato pies. We get to choose. Today I chose peach scones. 

The craggy, rooted black pavement was under my feet. I carried myself through the middle of the quiet street under a canopy of trees and a blanket of dark Montana night sky. I really liked the shoes I was wearing. I bought them with money I made taking photos. I bought a house the same way. I looked up at the stars, at this world, this amazing place that I am a part of. I felt alive.

I am living.
I am here.
This is happening.

How can I feel so happy? And so sad at the same time.

Much of the month of August I have spent in a cloud of depression. I don’t say this to be pitied or felt sorry for or for people to worry about me or to wish it away for me. Of course I don’t really want to feel this way and it has not been pleasant, actually at times it was practically imbearable (that made up word sounds more right than the un-version of it). I texted a friend in a state of panic two weeks ago as I drove from construction detour after detour trying to get to a trailhead, trying to get to the mountains, trying to get to my sanity. I was losing my shit. And she called me and talked me off a cliff of my mind’s own making. The gratitude I have for that human, for her words, her love, her kindness, I can’t quite express. So yes, it has been awful but also probably necessary.

“Change happens when the pain of staying the same is greater than the pain of change.”*

I have thought a lot about not sharing this. My public posts have become more emotionally wrought, some might say dark or depressing. An acquaintance even texted me yesterday and asked how my house is and whether I’m loving it (which despite depression, I am!). They assumed so because they had not seen many depressing posts on Instagram lately. Signed with a wink face. I get it: emotion, feeling, these can be really uncomfortable. But what I’ve noticed lately, is how many around me are all just struggling along too. I have loved ones searching for healing just like me. I have friends in relationships that they’re scared won’t work out. Friends with career worries. Others with body image issues they’re afraid to talk about. Heartbreak over the falling apart of relationships. Financial worry. Worry that they’re wasting their life on the wrong things. All of us seeking. All of us sad and happy and somewhere in between a million times over each day, each week, each month, each year.

In therapy yesterday, we talked about the magic in the world. Last week she asked me what magic I had accessed recently. I could think of none. That sounds so bleak and dramatic, but it was nonetheless true. She asked me yesterday and I had an immediate answer. Tuesday night, in a haze of wine, lost in a late summer warm night, my belly full of the best crab cake of my life, walking down a street I love, under trees I love, in a town I love, and in shoes I love that I love even more because I made the money to buy them, I felt the magic of the world. I felt so happy. And so sad. My therapist said she loves that feeling. And maybe I do too, because it feels so honest.

Why do we spend so much time pretending? When we’re all going through so much all the time. Aren’t we all walking this line between culturally accepted opposites of happy and sad. How much time do we really spend firmly planted and completely embraced by only one of those feelings in it’s entirety? We’re sold the carpe diem dream. Let’s seize this day, let’s live it like it might be our last, surely it could be—and I have struggled with this notion for years, because that grandiose sentiment has also felt like an exhausting idea in practice. I firmly believe that sometimes we just need to be sad and sit with it and let it be our teacher. We can’t rush through it. In fact, to do so, is in my opinion to do ourselves a great disservice and only procrastinate and protract the struggle or set of struggles in our precious lives.

“…when the pain of staying the same is greater…”

Maybe carpe diem can be applied differently, possibly mediocrely. What if it’s walking down the street and marveling at the stars and feeling good about a silly pair of shoes because it’s really cool that you made enough money to buy them and you live in a town you love and you’re heartbroken and don’t understand humans and you’re confused about the meaning of life and the meaning of your specific life and you really like trees and your friend said she dreamt you were a tree and that was really cool and empowering and man emotional pain is so physically painful and life is awful but it feels really good to be outside and able to move and walk on your own two healthyish feet and it’s so weird to be so resolutely happy and so sad in the same breath. Maybe carpe diem is sitting with the pain and not getting out of bed until 10am somedays because you’ve spent a decade plus judging every step you take and you’re finally tired. Maybe it’s sitting in the dark in your own house crying because you experienced loss and you need to feel it. But that bowl of peaches in the wan August light is marvelous, too.  Maybe it’s making an olive oil cake in the quiet and feeling the worn wood of the spoon in your hand and the smell of lemon zest in the bowl. Maybe it’s writing stream of conscious early in the morning as the almost fall sunlight hits the keys of the laptop you think might be on the verge of dying but you’re willing to last another 6 months. Maybe carpe diem is rarely the grand gesture we’ve been sold. Maybe it is being wholly and fully in our messes, beauty and suffering and all but mostly the in between. Maybe it’s not rising above, maybe it’s just being able to be with in it all.

“..than the pain of change.”

*Quote is from Tony Robbins whom I have mixed feelings about but this sentiment has come up a lot lately including this exact quote in my journal this morning.

It has been almost a year since D and I broke up. When I started dating again last fall my mom asked me to do one thing for her. She said, “Tori, please don’t change. You have worked too hard to become the person you are.” After a long, dry summer I was watching big drops of rain hit my cracked windshield. She and I often talk in our respective cars parked outside wherever it is we need to go next. Her words surprised me. Firstly, I felt pride. I knew I had worked hard but to have one of the most impactful people in my life see it too, that meant something to me. But, the meaning behind them was that I had changed for D. I had spent the summer untangling myself from love that had failed, love that I had thought both logically and with my heart at one point, was my ‘one.’ In reflection, I knew I had changed but I did not think it was enough that it would perceptible to others, especially enough to warrant words of caution as I embarked into my next love.

Last week, I was wandering around Brooklyn. It was 90 degrees and basically the best thing ever. I think I am learning I like heat. I am a different person in the summer than the winter. My spirit has woken up with the sun. I wandered into a shop and I wanted to buy something that yelled summer. I wanted to celebrate this change in season. As I browsed the merchandise in this far too cool for me store, I found myself drawn to wide brimmed hats and long pleated skirts. I admired them but I didn’t consider trying them on. They’re not me. But then I realized, why are they not me? I like them. I want to wear these things. D had very strong opinions about clothing especially on practical, smart girls like me. I realized these were the things I imagined he felt were stupid and hipster–the latter may very well be true. And I had determined that he was right: I don’t wear those things. Hats and skirts, these are such trivial things. They are not the pieces that make up who we are, and yet material possessions can still have so much power. They can be a way of sharing who we or who aren’t in this world. Probably their largest power is in what we let these things tell us about ourselves.

I decided that day that I am going to buy a hat. Maybe it will be a hipster hat, one that is so very Instagrammable, but I like some of those hats and I really think it would be fun to wear one and to live outside the sometimes narrow definition of who I think I  am, namely not a hipster and definitely not fashionable. Interestingly enough this decision to not care what anyone thinks about my silly or not silly yet to be purchased hat had a profound effect on me for the rest of the weekend. I used to wear a lot of rings and jewelry. But I stopped. I used to have a more bohemian look that was albeit often needing some serious style guidance but I loved those clothes and dressing that way. On Saturday, I bought two gold plated bracelets made by an artist in Brooklyn. They’re the kind of cuffs that are quite in right now. But I didn’t care, I just really liked them. Every day since, I have put them on with great joy. I have looked forward to showering (which I never do) just so I can get ready for the day and wear my bracelets. When I put them on it feels like putting on this whole other version of myself that I have neglected for too long.

I called my mom after leaving the hat and skirt store. I get it I told her. I said, “Mom, it has been almost a year since we broke up and it has taken me a year to let go of the person I was with him.”  

“I used to want to fix people. Now I just want to be with them.” Bob Goff, Love Does

My feet were quick under me and the sun was threatening to poke through and announce that spring was here, or at least that spring might come. Bob’s warm voice played in my ears as he talked about how to lean in to life. His words scared me. They reminded of this awful feeling I’d get in high school when the thing I knew I needed to do was the last thing I wanted to do. Things that were different, uncool and defied the status quo. Things that took courage I wasn’t always able to muster. And still can’t.

Yet, as he told stories laced with chance and whimsy and great delight in this life—stories of complete strangers asking if they could propose in his yard with 20 other strangers present oh and did he have a boat too said stranger might borrow (and he said yes!)—I remembered a part of my 16 year old self that despite the fear of being different believed that inside that sickly sweet fear was this great big life waiting for me.

It feels like life is asking me to lean in right now. I started this year following curiosity. I wanted to play big but what I needed was to play small well. This is a year of evolution, a year of less. But now I feel like I’m waking up and I need to play both big and small. Big with my heart, big in my relationships. Big in how I interact with the people I meet in this world, from the porter at Newark airport, to grumpy Canadian border officers, to new loves, best friends and maybe even just with myself.

After a winter where at moments it felt like I would truly never heal and never know running the way I had before I have been taking a new approach to my near daily runs. Every run is great, even when it was not. It is great because I get to do it. Sometimes I want it to be easier or faster or I worry I won’t get fast again but this slight shift in attitude is having a profound effect on my joy in running and in life. Add to this the stories of Bob Goff and I was feeling pretty excited about life a few Fridays back. Plus sunshine in what has felt like a never ending winter. I found myself craving a little adventure.

My adventure started pretty tame. I found a brewery on google maps in near Rochester, New York and drove there. The inside was not what I had hoped for: sunlit, wooden beams and views of the lake. It was dark, little natural light and I considered leaving. But life was really good so why not stay a little longer.

The beer list sold me. They had an IPA with milkshake in the title. And a maple pecan stout. I sampled them both. A couple sitting next to me started talking to the bartender and I learned they were from Canada and the bartender also happened to be a wedding photographer. Montreal bound on Monday myself, the couple was eager to offer up a slew of suggestions after having fallen a little for that city on their own trip there last summer. We started talking about food, and then family, and then careers. At one point it came up that I was on the east coast to photograph. Alita, said you must be good because someone had hired me to travel across the country. I opted to demurely decline that I might be good and Aleta said, “Girl, you are and you have to own that.” Such timely words from a stranger in a bar in Webster, New York.

The strong IPA began to creep into my blood and I thought, I want to take this couple’s photo. It took a few more sips of beer before I found the courage to ask if they might step in front of my camera. They said yes.

I left that brewery riding a wave of joy that was born out of whimsy. I am positive that running for pure love and the scary words of Bob Goff helped make that Friday afternoon what it was. Otherwise I might have sat there a bit more caught up in my own life and not curious about the world around me. I’ve had so many experiences like this before and they’ve all had the common thread of me showing up and actually feeling present. Days like Friday leave me bereft of the jaded armor I sometimes sport. Instead, I believed in life and love and that anything was possible. In fact, I was so inspired by the encounter that with 3% battery left on my laptop I furiously wrote to another friend I had met under similar circumstances in another city that was not my home about my afternoon.

Thank you Bob and running and sunshine and of course my subjects and new friends Aleta and Jeff.

I completely stole this idea from Kimberly Hasselbrink who borrowed it from Austin Kleon. (Sidebar: If you are not familar with either of these creatives I highly recommend them. The former has beautiful seasonal recipes and sage words and the latter inspires me to keep pushing myself to live a creative life).

As I get older, I find myself reflecting more and more on where I was three years ago on this day (Washington) and five (Grand Canyon). It’s possible, my thoughts drift here too often, but it’s also helping me to see the rich tapestry of the 33 years I have lived thus far. The gratitude grows and so does my thinking that I am doing pretty ok at this whole living thing. Last week, I was in upstate New York, yet again not in Montana this time of year–have you heard about our springs?–I saw Kim’s post. Immediately, I began to make a list of my 100 things for 2017.  It was a really good year. I became more ‘me.’ And most remarkable were all the small moments, whether they were in my own garden, basement kitchen or in a coffee shop in magical Budapest. What I fell in love with in 2017 more wholly were the little things. In big ways, 2018 is being shaped by 2017 realizations that checking the progress of my spinach seedlings is what most inspires me to jump out of bed in the morning. That and peanut butter hot chocolate. Here are a few tidbits of joy–big and small–and because it’s me of course some of the hard stuff that now with hindsight I feel much more grateful for.

1. My first real trail run. I crushed it. And I don’t ever use words like that, but I did. 14 miles, 7 of which were up the trail. Coincidentally, the same day that my long term boyfriend moved out.
2. Lunch at Mák in Budapest.
3. Peanut Butter Hot Chocolate.
4. That cocktail at Pujol.
5. A surprise 6 minute PR at the Bozeman half marathon (which I almost did not show up for because I didn’t believe in myself or my resiliency after a month of rocky training).
6. Baking sourdough bread–the joys and the frustrations.
7. Daffodils.
8. The Mountain Project.
9. Taking an online writing class and finishing it.
10. The end of a relationship.
11. Laying in the dirt on Pete’s Hill at 11pm the day after my 33rd birthday.
12. Tuesdays at the Bogert Farmer’s Market.
13. Writing my first post on this blog
14. The cheeseburger I ate in Vienna.
15. The sachertorte I ate in Vienna.
16. While we are on the subject of food, this cardamom pastry knot I had in Budapest at Artizán Bakery. I want to eat that every day.
17. Sharing one of my greatest shames with those closest to me and that shame losing some of it’s power over me.
18. Walking in my neighborhood on summer evenings.
19. Standing in the street on summer nights looking up at the sky and announcing I am here, I am alive. Thank you Petie for reminding me of that fact.
20. Mornings on my porch with a hot drink, toast and my favorite cookbooks.
21. Falling back in love with photography.
22. Reading more.
23. Running 24 miles in the mountains in the Bangtail Divide Race. My first comeback race.
24. Winning a Junebug award for one of the best wedding images of 2017.
25. Dancing in the rain at my childhood best friend’s wedding.
26. So many friends eating meals in my home with me.
27. Buying a plane ticket to France on a whim because a friend asked if I wanted to come along.
28. Small Business Saturday shopping with my mom–there was a cocktail and laughter and all the things my mom and I love.
29. Drinking beer with my mom at 10am on a week day. (Not on Small Business Saturday).
30. More pancakes, especially the zucchini bread ones. .
31. Eating ice cream from Pink’s in Kauai. It is so damn good. Go there.
32. Running in Maui before the sun came over the mountains. Maybe a runner’s high moment, definitely a moment of I had no idea running could bring so much joy to my life.
33. Jumping in the pool at 2am with all the guests after photographing one of the best weddings of my career.
34. Running.
35. Meeting Caroline and Beth at Kara Goucher’s Podium Retreat.
36. Riding my bike in dowtown Bozeman.
37. My CSA.
38. Homemade sweet potato nachos with a ‘cheesy’ cashew sauce.
39. A Sunday long run in Mexico City on the closed down streets of the historic district.
40. Eating coconut ‘bacon’ for the first time.
41. My first cortado at Espresso Embassy.
42. The first time I made coffee in my Chemex.
43. An adventure run in Budapest with out an agenda. I remembered why I run and how strong I actually am.
44. Falling in love.
45. Letter writing.
46. Peanut butter toast perfected by the addition of Skyrr super thick yogurt, dried raspberries and cacao nibs.
47. Matcha lattes, peanut butter toast and loud pop music on early Sunday morning drives to the trail head.
48. Making ice cream cake for my college boyfriend’s 36th birthday after over a decade of friendship. Mint chocolate chip with homemade fudge.
49. Lunch picnic dates with my mom.
50. Making the best spicy cilantro cashew dressing and putting it on every grilled salad with squeaky halloumi cheese.
51. Finally getting to make Ashley Rodriguez’s tomato tart that she teased on Instagram last summer. It is in her upcoming book so unfortunately you will have to wait.
52. Supper club in my house and too much wine.
53. Standing on the dock in Bellingham.
54. An ice cream sundae in a waffle cone for my birthday.
55. Eating at Manolin for my birthday with Gina and Chris.
56. Yoga.
57. Doing a work out on a dirt track with frogs singing under the stars in New Hampshire. It was my friend’s childhood track.
58. Ice cream cones in New Hampshire with Catherine.
59. My Uncle Mike’s speech at his daughter, Anna’s wedding in August.
60. Drinking really good wine with my uncle.
61. Telling my truths to Lauren the day after my birthday.
62. Having the courage to find a new therapist and ‘break up’ with my old therapist.
63. Going to the Ballard Farmer’s market for the first time.
64. Tamarind margaritas, tuna tostadas and the green sauce at Entremar.
65. Reading Chasing Slow and reading part of it on just the right day.
66. Talking about Iran and the kind people I met there on a stage in Big Sky.
67. Ice cream at Frankie and Joe’s for the first time. And then all the other times I got to eat it thereafter.
68. Speaking of ice cream, a wine and ice cream date (also Frankie and Joe’s) in Capitol Hill with Whitney.
69. Seattle.
70. Photographing my first wedding in Washington.
71. Niles and Sarah’s day after wedding shoot in Olympic National Park. Photography bucket list item checked.
72. Rich Table annual dinner with Maddie year two. That rib-eye steak with dungeness crab drawn butter. You do not leave the fat behind on that plate.
73. French radishes.
74. Lauren’s very Italian dad teaching her to make pasta in my kitchen.
75. Making a vegetarian meal for my aunt and uncle’s friends in Big Sky.
76. Taking myself on dates to Blackbird.
77. The bread at Blackbird.
78. The chocolate cake I ate at Blackbird both at dinner and then for breakfast the next morning.
79. Beginning the path to healing.
80. The First Mess Cookbook.
81. My second home in Seattle with Gina and Chris.
82. Crabbing in Anacortes.
83. Adventure day with Gina in Edison, Washington.
84. Going to Tartine for the first time.
85. Buffalo milk softserve at Tartine Manufactory.
86. Falling more and more in love mornings.
87. Trying out veganism.
88. Crying.
89. Online dating and so many awkward dates.
90. Running up Mt. Sanitas in Boulder.
91. Asking strangers to join you for lunch in Mexico City.
92. The Merry Fucking Christmas workout at the Mountain Project.
93. Running in -10 degree weather on Sourdough trail on the last day of the year.
94. Discovering running friends, especially Stacie.
95. Spending an afternoon and evening photographing one of my favorite food bloggers and her family.
96. Eating her nectarine salad.
97. Being asked to cook the desserts for your physical therapist’s Christmas party.
98. A new friend who shows up for you.
99. Lunch at Mák in Budapest.
100. Ditching running to bake cookies, banana bread and tahini banana bread muffins.
101. Feeling more like ‘me’ than ever before.

Ok, so it’s 101 things and really this list could go on and on and on and on…Thank you 2017.