This is my sixth Christmas on the road. The sixth annual celebration of the holiday with my toes in sand instead of snow. On December twelfth of 2016, I put the only place I’d ever called home in my rearview mirror. Driving off in the rental given me for the twelve days of Christmas, with the sole intention of making it to Nashville by nightfall. I was cursing my last Wisconsin blizzard and the six inches it had dumped, making strapping my bike to the rack on the back extra challenging. This weather was one of the reasons I was leaving and ironically, had also made me stay an extra day. The night of which I’d spent in bed with the grad student I was shagging for the past month and a half, waiting for my house to sell. I’d gotten up a few times in the night to pee, each time having a mini existential crisis. I was totally untethered. Adrift in the world and riding the wind–just like a snowflake.

What was I doing? Was everything I owned really reduced to what I could cram into my VW Bug, sitting in the parking lot downstairs? Was I honestly leaving? And with no real plan other than to find a camper and travel and blog about it for a year? Could I really find my movable home and something to pull it with, in twelve days? 

Then I’d crawl back into the warm bed, feel the hard body of Joey laying next to me and forget all about it. Until the next pee.

I’m no Scrooge, but if the Ghost of Christmas Past would probably take me back to the scene the next morning when Joey asks me where I’m moving to, steam from our coffee cups moistening our faces and me not knowing what to say. Does he pick it up in my pause, or maybe the evasive sideways glance out the frosty window? 

“Ohh…you’re leaving leaving,” his face reflecting surprise and something else. Confusion? A slight sadness?

I explained my plan of a year as a nomad, motioning to my car and describing how I’ve sorted and packed. He countered with a sweeping arm to all the stuff he’d like to get rid of. Saying Florida has a good graduate school for Veterinary Science. 

My stomach sinks a little, signifying I’d not read the room correctly. I’d thought after a nice kiss and a quick It’s-been-fun pat on the butt, I’d drive off and we’d shrug off these trysts. But now we’re in the parking lot, he’s in flannel PJ pants and we’re negotiating the bubbly and champagne flutes I’d brought to celebrate (we’d drunk the absinthe he’d made us instead). It’s decided he’ll keep the flutes as a souvenir and I’ll take the bottle. He’ll come visit me and we’ll drink it then. 

I’m guessing the ghost would want me to get the lesson that people, even if they’re only lovers, have feelings and expectations that may be different from yours. I’d dropped a bomb on someone and I could’ve handled it more delicately. I also tended to think back then, I could disappear from someone’s life without them caring too much. I’m grateful the view of myself and my impact has elevated. 

The Ghost of Christmas Present would show me in the woods–in my second camper, that one year of living on the road has stretched to six–in a state park in the middle of Florida where manatees come to winter. They counted 476 yesterday. I’m slowly editing the finished first draft of my first book: Gut Instincts. It’s about how I got off the medical merry-go-round and had a self-induced healing of Crohn’s Disease.

My vision for the book is that it parlays me into the realm of coaching where I help people access the same thing in themselves. Empower them to take back their bodies and direct their treatment by listening to the message their illness is sending. Heal your mind and the body follows–that was my experience and there are many like me. I’d like for there to be even more.

I’m a healer, it’s my life purpose. Doing my purpose is where my utmost joy is. So why can’t I build my website? Why do I expend a lot of mental energy pushing my purpose away? In the Hero’s Journey it’s the stage: Refusal of the Call. Having a website feels like putting a flag in and declaring my own corner in the world. I don’t know why it seems so scary, tons of people have done it. Every business I walk into is the result of someone doing that very thing. 

It’s nothing special, I tell myself. People do it everyday. I started a blog, I can build a website. I can work for myself. This is the natural next step in the progression of my career. So why do I hesitate taking it? Am I afraid I’ll suck? I can’t afford to suck. 

Would the Ghost of Christmas Present show me people in pain, suffering while they wait for me to get me shit together and launch a real solution? Would it show their family and loved ones berating them for what they eat, blaming them when a flare-up hits? I’ve seen and heard of some mean lack of support, I’ve experienced it myself. This sure was motivating when it came to writing the book. But it doesn’t do much for me now.

Wonder what the bony fingers of the Ghost of Christmas Future would point to… Me unhappy, no doubt. A manuscript gathering cobwebs and dust. A computer screen displaying the domain name I’ve purchased, still with a blank screen. Three out of five Americans have a chronic illness, would that number be even higher in the future? Especially without my healing intervention? 

I was diagnosed so long ago, nurses asked me how to spell Crohn’s Disease. It was rare. I didn’t know anyone else who had it and no one I told had heard of it. My stock answer to the question: what it’s like was: it’s like having a flu that won’t go away. Fast forward thirty-five years and there’s five different categories of it. It’s on the rise and I know I can help. I healed mine and I can help others heal theirs–would love to be doing such important and fulfilling work. Giving talks, having a podcast, being on others podcasts. Putting the modern medical system–which lacks the holistic approach necessary for true healing–on notice. Empowering patients to be their own primary care providers and form partnerships with their doctors.