An Eruption of Healing and Ginger Ale

Over the past few days, I’ve found myself sitting with ghosts of the old ways. The ways of how I used to move through the world. The ways that told me I had to hustle and grind to be a success. The story that said if I am not constantly vigilant and actively DOING, then I am not earning my keep. The rickety belief that I am not being a good human, business person, or spiritual leader if I don’t constantly fracture and deplete myself.

There was a time when I used to exist in a near-constant state of anxiety. If I was doing something, I was anxious about whether or not I was doing it right. If I was posting or sharing something, I was anxious about whether or not it was worthy of being shared. If I was taking time off to rest and simply enjoy life, I was anxious about the work I told myself I SHOULD be doing.

My life was mostly an experience of never trusting where I was. Always worrying that I was missing the mark somehow. Always stressing about satisfying some invisible, made-up standard that didn’t actually exist except for in the agitated mind.

I spent years looking for external confirmation that I was doing a good job. Wondering if I was worthy of what I desired. I was on a never-ending quest to prove myself. Always seeking a sign from outside to validate me. 

Eventually, this manifested in an unrelenting drive to try and control everything. Since I had no clear internal sense of my inherent worthiness, I tried forcibly extracting it from the outside world. I became consumed by the idea that if I could just figure out how to perfectly arrange and organize things in my environment, that it would somehow magically rearrange things inside of me.

Peace of mind came in fleeting moments. Leaving as quickly as it arrived. A taste of relief. A snippet of ease. I would get a glimpse of another way to live, but those glimpses were painfully brief. Like a mirage in my periphery. It never was an experience I could manage to anchor and sustain.

Blessedly, over the past few years, I have unraveled those old beliefs that demand I earn my place in this life. It’s no longer the soundtrack to my days. It’s a way of being that now seems foreign and strange; like a prehistoric artifact. So, when it returned the other day, like the Ghost of Christmas Past, I was understandably a bit curious as to why. Its return wasn’t cause for a death spiral into anxiety and doubt. It’s more like the pain of an old wound that flares up from time to time.

Sitting with it yesterday, I was acutely aware of some familiar insecurities and uncertainty. The agitated questioning “should I be doing more?” “What can I do to make things better or different?” “Where have I missed the mark, or made an error?”

I even went so far as to sit down and try to record a video in an attempt to appease the ego beast. Not 5 minutes in, it became abundantly clear that inspiration was not present. It was a stark reminder that any attempt at creating from this space wasn’t going to produce anything of value. I stopped recording, got up, and got on with my day. Still a bit uneasy, but resolved not to fall back into old behavior.

I spent the remainder of the day observing this old self. Shuffling through potential causes in my mind, none of which bore any deeper understanding of why it had resurfaced. By the end of the day, I'd chalked it up to something akin to muscle memory, and called it a night.

This morning, I awoke and quietly observed the tension of the old self still present in my field. Not loud or aggressive, just there, floating like a phantom in a dim corner. I vowed to spend some time with it as soon as I had my coffee brewed and in hand. My morning journaling and communion would be dedicated to exploring it. 

As I pulled on my sweats and hoodie, making my bed and starting my day, I wondered if this was a call for simple acknowledgment, or if deeper healing was needed. As I made my way into the kitchen, my thoughts shifted to a recent project I'd started a week or so prior.

The past few weeks, I have been learning how to make homemade ginger ale. It’s a pretty simple process. You start by creating a ginger bug, which is a naturally fermented starter made from fresh ginger, sugar, and water. You feed it regularly for a few days until a colony of wild yeast begins to ferment and bubble. Once it’s active, you use it to brew probiotic sodas. I’d found a recipe for cranberry ginger ale, and that was my goal. 

A few days ago, after my ginger bug was fully active, I'd moved onto the next step. This involved incorporating a portion of the ginger bug with water, fruit juice, and sugar to create the soda itself. I’d had my soda mixture brewing on the counter for several days, and yesterday I noticed it was fizzing and bubbling with natural carbonation. This was my sign to move onto the next phase. Step three was to strain the mixture and decant it into a swing-top bottle so that it could continue to build up carbonation.

I’d done that yesterday afternoon and this morning I noticed it had some bubbles built up. I decided that it probably needed to be burped, so I slowly opened the top of the bottle. In a flash the soda erupted from the bottle with a Vesuvian force and a roaring pop. My face and hoodie were instantly drenched with cranberry ginger ale! Pools of ruby red liquid flowed across the countertops, the toaster oven, and the shelves of spice jars and cooking oils. The ceiling, the walls, and the fronts of the cupboards were dripping with the fizzy brew. I stood in stunned silence as rivulets of cranberry ginger ale ran down my face and into my mouth, dripping from the end of my nose and continuing down my chest.

The shock stunned me into silence and I was frozen in place. I slowly began to survey the catastrophe before me in disbelief, blinking through sticky eyelids. “What, the actual fuck?” I exclaimed to the now soaked kitchen. This was the last thing I expected at 6 a.m. on a Sunday before I had even had a sip of coffee.

In an attempt to make sense of what was happening, my mind shuffled and stuttered through potential reactions to this early morning fiasco.

Much to my surprise, what came forth was a deep, guttural laugh. It rose from my belly and out of my mouth. “Oh. My. GOD!” I howled. As I cackled louder, I was overtaken with laughter so fierce and strong, I had to lean against the sodden counter for support.

It. Was. Everywhere!

My body shook with laughter so powerful that it was becoming more of a somatic release. The stress and overwhelm my nervous system had endured over the past 18 months of intense and life-altering change was suddenly rushing to the surface. For a moment, I felt as if I might collapse into tears. I said out loud, to nobody in particular, “No use crying over exploded ginger ale.” This statement brought another outbreak of uncontrollable hysterics as tears and cranberry ginger ale rolled down my cheeks.

Once I regained my composure, I steadied myself and began cleaning up the mess. For the next 45 minutes, I moved everything from its place and wiped it all down. I was disappointed that all of the work and resources I had put into nurturing this homemade brew was wasted, but beyond the initial shock of the explosion, I was actually fine. 

In fact, I was more than fine; I was grateful.

A year ago, something like this would have sent me into a tailspin. There would have been anger and expletives. I would have internalized it and turned it into a problem, or a failure, or a personal affront from the universe. It would have soured my mood for several hours, if not days. Today, though, it was a blessing.

Once I’d finished cleaning the counters and everything on them, I made my way down to the floors. As I got on my hands and knees to clean up the sticky mess, lyrics from the 10,000 Maniacs song “These Are Days” flashed through my mind.

These are the days
That you might fill with laughter 
Until you break…

I paused, mid cleaning, and thought to myself, “This is what life after healing looks like.”

Now I understood why this old self was hanging around. He'd come to say goodbye. 

That insight unleashed the tears.

The realization that I was a changed person and that my personal healing work had brought me to a place where I no longer imploded into self-pity and punishment took me completely by surprise. In that moment, I saw that the years-long arduous journey through my inner landscape and the mountains of shadow work had actually created a new reality.

I was literally living the outcome of all of the new choices I had made. The deliberate and intentional dedication to my own liberation had actually paid off.

Here I was, on my hands and knees, a sticky mess, bawling my eyes out and absolutely filled with gratitude. This never would have happened even 6 months ago.

I was no longer bound by the old patterns of the limited self.

This is what life after healing looks like. 

It’s not perfect, it’s still messy. It’s definitely full of the unexpected. There are easy days and hard days. There are failures and successes and from one moment to the next, I often have no idea which one is which. 

It’s a shift that is really only perceptible in hindsight. 

It’s not one big thing, it’s a million tiny things that add up to big things. At first it’s a little more peaceful, and a little bit easier; then you eventually realize that it’s a lot more peaceful and a lot easier.

It’s reveling in tears just as much as I revel in laughter, because both of them are evidence that I am present, accounted for, and living fully. 

It’s knowing that nothing is my adversary, and that all of it; even the messy, sticky, unexpected explosions, are in service of my highest unfolding. 

It’s realizing that creating a life that feels like paradise is possible and the dreams I have aren’t just deluded fantasies, but messages from my future self guiding me forward to fulfillment.

It’s taking none of it personally while making it all count. 

It’s accepting that even after the healing work is done, there might be old pains that flare up from time to time, like a specter from the past, but even that becomes cause for celebration because it means another layer of clarity and freedom has been made available.

Healing is fucking hard and scary and seemingly endless. Until one day it’s not.

At some point, it suddenly becomes clear that the path forward, to a life beyond healing, has opened, which brings you to a choice point. Stay stuck in the old loop of breaking and repair, or decide that it’s time to put the stories of the broken self aside and move on.

As my nervous system and body came back to balance, I looked up at the now-sparkling kitchen and said out loud to no one in particular.

“Thank you. That was a fucking awesome way to start my Sunday.”

I stood up, rinsed out the sponge one final time, and made my coffee.

Best cup of coffee. Ever.

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