Elizabeth Gilbert and Expectations

I always thought I was unique, special and, therefore, also had unique and special tastes. I thought I was only drawn to those things that no one else knew about, and they were my special secret.

Things like Stephen Sondheim. I grew up listening to musicals with my mom. I really thought that everyone listened to musicals when they clean the house. (And to this day, I cannot clean if I am not singing. Well, I guess, technically I can. But why would I?) Sondheim was always my favorite. And as I got older, Sunday in the Park with George was the album I was always drawn to. To the point that my first tattoo is a line from the song Move On from that show. (And yes, my dog George is sort of, kind of, named from that show as well.) I thought this was a show that was only my favorite, because I’m deep and special like that. But then when Sondheim died and I read all the articles everyone wrote about him…. turns out Sunday in the Park with George is everyone’s favorite damn show. Not so special after all.

“The choice may have been mistaken, the choosing was not.” Designed by my best friend and written in her handwriting.

Another musical related one: Hamilton. Yeah, that Hamilton. My “claim to fame” is that I saw that show it’s fourth week on Broadway—with the original cast!!—and paid normal, Broadway ticket prices for the tickets. I had been obsessed with Lin Manuel Miranda since In the Heights (thanks again, to my mom) and I’m a big American history nerd. So when I heard he was doing a show about the founding fathers, I convinced my then-husband that we should go to New York City for our fifth wedding anniversary and see the show. We bought the tickets in May, I left him in July, and I went to New York to see the show in September with my childhood friend. Despite the emotional roller coaster I was on, I was so taken with that show. And then…. so was the rest of the world.

I was in the room where it happened! (And such a baby!)

I have had multiple people—and weirdly, a lot of them were my professors or my bosses, and all of them were men—tell me that I am “vanilla.” I was always horribly offended by the label, in part because I know it was not meant as a compliment. But mostly because I’m unique, dammit!

And yet…

Finally, there is my love for Elizabeth Gilbert. Yes, it started with her book Eat, Pray, Love that I read my third year of law school in 2009. But my love grew for her through her next book Committed, and her two novels, The Signature of All Things and City of Girls. And every time she came through Portland, I tried to hear her speak. And I tried to be in the front row. Her poise, her vulnerability, her honesty, how she lived her life, it was everything I wanted to be. I wanted to be the globe trotting writer who loved fiercely, loyalty, and out loud.

For my 2020 birthday I was supposed to be in Sedona with Elizabeth Gilbert…. but pandemic. So we Zoom’d (with 138 other people) instead.

But again, I am not the only woman who admires Elizabeth Gilbert. Eat, Pray, Love is now a noun and/or verb for when a woman needs to take a break from her life to reevaluate. There is a collection of essays called “Eat, Pray, Love Made me Do It.” Again, I am not unique. I am pretty damn vanilla.

But the fact that millions of people love, admire, and want to be like Elizabeth Gilbert, did not stop me from thinking that I could, in fact, do it. That I could walk away from my life. Take a break. Spend time with myself. Write the next great American novel. And have an amazing time doing it.

Turns out? I am not Elizabeth Gilbert.

I am starting my fourth week into my life “on the road.” A lot of it has been spent… well… not in the van or on the road, but in Airbnbs, at friend’s houses, and in a state of pretty constant anxiety and depression. The isolation has been so hard, and it feels very much like how I spent the beginning of the pandemic. Alone, afraid, and lonely. Social media and all the #vanlife posts tell me I am doing this wrong. That I am failing at adventure. That I am failing at eating, praying, and loving.

I had a breakdown. I called a “Board of Directors” meeting with my three best friends. I called my sponsor. I asked for help.

My dear friends gently reminded me, as I cried at them over Zoom and on the phone, that I can’t do this wrong. There is no right way to do this. That it makes sense that all the feelings are coming up again and again and again and again. That it is okay to do whatever it is I need to do to take care of me. To take care of my heart, my mind, and my body during this time of transition. And that I can’t fail at this. That failing at whatever this is, is actually impossible.

But/and I keep thinking about Liz. That when she was in Italy, India, and Indonesia, there was no social media. No hash tags. No way to be connected with everyone, yet still feel so disconnected. So clearly, it’s social media’s fault that I am “failing” at my Eat, Pray, Love #vanlife experience.

And then I remembered, she wasn’t happy all the time. There was a lot of crying. There was a lot of time at internet cafes to email friends back home. Maybe she wanted to throw in the towel a million times over but couldn’t because she had a book to write (she had already received an advance on the memoir to finance the trip). So maybe I’m more like Liz that I thought.

My therapist once told me that an addict’s mind tends to think in black or white. Yes or no. This or that. It can be very difficult to see the grey, to see a middle path, to see the third way. I don’t know about all addicts, but this is definitely how my mind works and I need to work very hard to not fall into this pattern. I either need to be in the van ALL THE TIME! or NONE OF THE TIME! I either need to be hiking / writing / meditating / yoga-ing / whatever-ing EVERY DAY, or it doesn’t count, what’s even the point. I need to be TOTALLY HAPPY BY MYSELF AT ALL TIMES to be a good feminist, or I’m a shitty-ass feminist.

What. The. Actual. Fuck. Yet, this is why my brain does to me. This is why my mind is not always a safe neighborhood to wander around in by myself.

So yes. I had expectations of this time, of myself, of what I would accomplish, of what I would be, of what I would feel, of what all this would be like. And fuck! I haven’t accomplished it all in three weeks, I haven’t even left Oregon, so clearly I’m a failure and I should just hang my head, crawl back in a hole, and give up.

Yes, this is an exhausting way to live. But/and I am so grateful that I am aware of this pattern in my mind. That I can see it happening, even if I can’t always interrupt it before I start spiraling. I am working on it. I am practicing being gentle with myself. Practicing reaching out and asking for help. Practicing slowing down. Letting go of expectations. Taking my time and trying to find that middle path.

So I’ll keep moving. Whether it’s in Airbnbs, in the van, or whatever. I’ll keep moving on. I’m going to turn more inward, and less outward. I’m going to be on social media less, if at all. And not blog unless I really have something to say. I’ll practice staying with being uncomfortable, knowing that it will pass. I’ll practice reaching out to loved ones who are able to see me better than I can see myself. And I’ll practice letting go of the expectation that I will be Elizabeth Gilbert, and see what it’s like to be Sarah Einowski. Vanilla and all.