The Wonderland Journal

Remember 2020?

I graduated college just in time — sliding across the finish line as the world shut down and classes moved online. While many students were figuring out a virtual summer in a beautiful college town, I was packing my bags. I had waited years for this moment. I was finally free.

Free to travel. Free to live abroad. Free to become the version of myself I had imagined for so long.

That summer I returned home to my hot and humid hometown, already looking beyond it. Travel, however, turned out to be far more complicated than the dreamy montage I had carried in my head. I spent a couple of months with family friends in Iowa helping to homeschool their eight children—a safe space to land when I didn’t know what to do in life. Then my “real” travels began through a travel app called Workaway: three months in Ireland, a month working on a docked sailboat in Virginia, three weeks wandering the dusty plains of a cattle ranch in Alliance, Nebraska.

On paper, it sounded like everything I’d ever wanted. Adventurous. Romantic, even.
It was everything but that.

Every new travel destination felt more awkward and emptier than the last. I had spent most of my life longing for this season — to live abroad, to live on a sailboat, to collect stories that would define me as an adventurer. While it was audacious, it wasn’t romantic by any means. It felt hollow. Traveling was supposed to fill the ache in me. Instead, I felt unmoored. Purposeless. Like I was wandering through the blank pages at the end of a book.

I had finally arrived at what I always wanted, but it wasn’t working. I pivoted to the only thing I knew to do: back to North Carolina.

I came home determined to become a working actress — something I had pursued on and off for nearly a decade. At twenty-three, it felt bold, like the right — and only — thing to do. Over the next four years, I worked with two theater companies and performed in eight productions. I threw myself into it. Theater became my identity.

Five years after this decision, I have neither settled abroad nor become a professional actress.

And honestly? I think that’s a good thing.

Recently, in jiu jitsu, I’ve been hearing one phrase over and over again: “Don’t force it.”

I’ll be on the mat, wrapped around someone’s arm, trying desperately to break a tight gable grip. I can see the arm bar. I can almost feel it. If I could just muscle through — just pull harder — I’d have it. My instructor or a calm purple belt will say gently, “Don’t force it.”

They’re right. My strength won’t break it. My technique isn’t refined enough yet. The harder I yank, the tighter the grip becomes. Those darn gable grips.

The solution isn’t more force. It’s awareness. Back up and readjust. Notice the opening that’s already there. Maybe not an arm bar — maybe something with the shoulder I hadn’t considered.

That’s been my life.

I’ve often fixated on the thing I believed would finally make me feel like I belonged. Living abroad. Becoming a professional actress. I thought those identities would solve something in me. That I would feel significant. Valued. That I would be where I’m meant to be… that I wouldn’t feel so much like an outsider.

Theater especially gave me a sense of importance. Applause has a way of doing that. But over time, I began to realize that what I loved wasn’t necessarily performing for validation. It was sustaining a high note in my voice lessons. The harmony in choir rehearsals. The boldness and choice in acting classes. The physical expression in dance classes. The practice itself. The growth. The play. My relationship with theater has always been about outcome. Now, I realize, I prefer formation.

I wasn’t chasing craft as much as I was chasing arrival.

I kept trying to muscle my life into positions it wasn’t ready for. When travel didn’t feel purposeful, I felt like I was failing at the dream. When acting felt shaky — two left feet, jumbled lines, exhaustion from cramming my schedule with unachievable goals — I assumed I just needed to push harder.

The harder I pushed, the tighter the grip of “This isn’t for you right now” became.

But maybe it was never about pushing.

If you dropped me abroad today, I would show up differently than I would’ve at 23. I’ve learned how to find and build solid community. I’ve learned how to sit in discomfort without panicking. How to invest in people. How to discern good friends from great ones. How to be generous. How to forgive. How to be self-disciplined. How to be unbothered by irritations. How to let something go without calling it failure.

This has been a season of formation I couldn’t skip.

Four years ago, I was chasing the image of being a “triple threat” — someone who could sing, act, and dance. I was confident in my acting. Singing and dancing? That’s another story. Still, I pushed. I wanted the full package. The impressive résumé. The success.

I was using all my strength, trying to force an arm bar that wasn’t there.

Today, if you asked me whether I want to be a professional actress, my answer would be no. I want to take classes. Play the games. Try a hip-hop dance class just because it sounds fun. Sing classical music because I enjoy my improvement. Move for the joy of it — not because I need it to define me.

Somewhere along the way, my desires shifted… or maybe they were refined.

Sometimes we cling tightly to a dream because we think it will bring us the feeling we’re actually after — significance, belonging, validation, certainty. But with time — sometimes years — we realize the dream was just the surface layer. Underneath it was a deeper hunger.

For me, that hunger was about how I wanted to be seen — someone who belonged, someone whose life was marked by purpose, accomplishment, success, and skill.

My life of intentionality still runs parallel to those desires. While some of these self-discoveries are dramatic, the day-to-day is full of ordinary pivots. When my old gym buddy left for vet school and I didn’t want to exercise alone, I checked out the local CrossFit gym. I had no idea that over a year into it I would be prepared to join jiu jitsu. I had no idea I’d be close to ready to jump into a 2,650-mile hike. I thought I was just working out to be healthy.

Instead, I was unknowingly being prepared. The physical strength, cardio, and discipline I gained at the gym allowed me to jump straight into my next athletic ventures.

The pivots — those decisions to shift when something isn’t working — are what shape us. Opportunities rarely resemble the dream we once scripted. The Pacific Crest Trail and jiu jitsu are both new to me, both slightly uncomfortable, both a little nerve-wracking. And yet, each creates space for reflection. Long miles on trail and many rounds of trying and failing on the mat have a way of stripping life down to its essentials. These began as physical challenges but have become environments for deeper thought.

Six years out of college, I sometimes feel behind. Like I should have more to show for my twenties. More status and points to add to my résumé.

But maybe these years weren’t about proving anything.

Maybe they were about becoming.

I’m beginning to understand that not every grip is meant to be broken. Not every dream is meant to be forced into existence on our timeline. Sometimes the wiser move is to loosen our hold, shift our angle, and notice the opening we couldn’t see before.

The arm bar isn’t always there, but something else is: the lessons, the growth, and the steady strengthening I didn’t notice until I needed it. 

My identity was theater. My place of belonging was living abroad. For a long time, I thought if I could just secure those things, I would finally feel like I was where I was meant to be. That’s my story. What’s yours?

Not every dream is meant for every season. And not every delay is a denial.

Sometimes what feels mundane is conditioning.

Sometimes what feels like failure is shaping you.

Sometimes what feels like resistance is refining you.

Life isn’t about forcing the submission. It’s about learning when to ease your grip, shift your weight, and see what else is opening.

And maybe the pivot — the one you didn’t plan for — is the very thing forming you into who you’re meant to become.