On October 11, my dad was in a terrible head-on car crash. He died on impact. The other driver— died an hour later. I have a hard time being human sometimes. This is one of those times.
My husband’s death—almost nine years ago—leveled me. It took years to climb out of that black hole, and I know there are still parts of me down there I’ll never retrieve. But this... this feels unbearable. My heart feels like it’s made of paper, and the universe keeps punching holes in it—so many that there are now more holes than heart left.
Is this the thing that finally breaks me? I keep asking myself. This might be it. This might finally be the one that does. I’ve sat down several times to write this—to make it into a cohesive expression of where I am. I hope it’s not too long because, damn it, if there’s one thing I know how to write about, it’s death.
Dacia
Death came into my life early. When my baby sister, Dacia, died just five days after she was born, I was three. I barely remember it in memory—but in feeling, I sure do. There are no pictures of the little girl my mother carried in her belly for nine months, but there was a hollowness that filled the house after. An empty space at the table where she should’ve been. An entire life never lived.
My mom tells me the story of how I reacted to her death. Apparently, I had a little yellow banana on wheels that I could sit on and roll around. His name was Ollie. I loved Ollie. He had two big black eyes, red yarn hair on top of his head, and four wheels that took him everywhere with me. When Dacia died, I told my mom I wanted to take Ollie to her grave—so she’d have something to play with in heaven.
I would have more encounters with death at nine, twelve, and thirteen, but none of those prepared me for the next big one at nineteen.
My Father
I need to go back for a minute and give a short backstory to a long story—the story of my father. We had a very complex relationship. What I posted on social media after he died pretty much sums it up:
Ronald Robert Drylie 12/13/51–10/11/2025.
This is my dad. He died unexpectedly in a car crash Saturday night.
We had a complicated relationship. He’s the one who named me Jolene. My mom wanted Holly Lynn. My sister—little at the time—suggested Peppermint Patty. But my dad trumped them all.
He taught me to love music. Ironically, he hated painting. And I’m probably tone-deaf—a little foreshadowing of the creative tension between us.
He had a hard time showing up for me consistently. He’s the reason I have a heartbeat—and the reason I’ve known heartbreak. His absence lit the fire that fueled me through a lifetime of creating and an incredibly successful 25-year career painting for movies, television, and live entertainment. Every painting, poem, and project screamed to him, I am here.
And now, he isn’t.
Life was hard on him. Hard on those who loved him. He served our country and was proud of it. He was the most musically gifted man I ever met. And when I buried my husband nine years ago, it was that music that helped me heal.
I don’t know the physics of black holes, but I’ve lived inside the ones carved by loss—the voids that drag you under and still pull at you long after you’ve crawled out, whispering their gravity as you search for light in a sky that’s forgotten how to shine.
Rest in peace, Ron Drylie. Earth school is hard. I’m glad you graduated.
Send me a signal from the void—something to keep writing about. Because all your stories ended today. I hope Patrick gives you hell... and a beer. I hope you both banter about the incredible force I am because of both the presence and absence of your love. And I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I most deeply and truly understand the force of loving someone who loves as hard as I do—because of both of you.
What I Didn’t Say
My father served in Vietnam, and like so many others, he came home carrying the war inside him. He didn’t leave it on the battlefield — he brought it into our house, into the walls, into the silence. He gave up irretrievable parts of himself for this country, and like too many veterans, he never got the help he needed — not mentally, physically, emotionally, or financially.
They were young men asked to bear things no one should have to carry, and when they came home, there was no soft place to land. They built lives on unsteady ground, raised families on top of old wounds, and tried to make sense of the noise still echoing in their heads.
My father was a musician, he could play most anything by ear on numerous instruments. Maybe he did this to drown out the noise in his own head. He was a storyteller in songs and on stage. He was a man I always tried to understand but I was a storyteller in paint and pen. The expressions were different but I also feel like we had a quiet understanding about the other.
My father taught me how to play a few keys of “Boogie Woogie” on my little kid piano at four years old. He also taught me to sing “Great Balls of Fire” at three. Of course, I had no idea what the song was about but every time I belted it out he would laugh so hard.
My parents split when I was five. He was in my life until I was about eleven. After that, I had two very significant “fill-in dads.”
The Stand-Ins
The first was Popa. In ninth grade, I met my best friend, and her family basically took me in as one of their own. Her dad was like my dad, and I called him Popa. Popa treated me like a daughter. I was at their house almost every day. Her family literally was my family. He showed up for me when my own father couldn’t.
In eleventh grade, we moved again, and I was separated from Popa. That’s when I met Jeff, my next father figure. My mom orchestrated the meeting. Jeff was a pastor at our church. She was worried about me because I was shut down, shut off, not talking to anyone about anything going on inside of me. Oh, and I was very angry.
Both Popa and Jeff made me feel safe. They talked to me, listened, encouraged me, and most of all, they loved me. They didn’t want anything from me. It was a new experience—and I needed it. I loved each of them as if they were my own father.
And then… they both died early.
The Pattern
When I was nineteen, Jeff was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He was gone within three months. In my mid-twenties, Popa was diagnosed with lung cancer. He died, too. Years later, my husband was diagnosed with esophageal cancer and died five months after his diagnosis. I was forty. Cancer sucks.
Jeff was the first corpse I ever saw. I walked up to his casket, looked at him, and laughed quietly to myself—because it didn’t look like him at all. I was nineteen, and even then, I knew what made him alive was his soul—and his soul wasn’t there.
I don’t remember seeing Popa in the casket. Maybe I blocked it out. Maybe it hurt too much. I just didn’t see the point in looking at people dead when the thing that made them them was already gone.
I was at my husband’s side in hospice when he took his last breath. I looked up at my brother and asked, “What time is it?” He said, “9:47.” I whispered back. “An entire man’s life reduced to a number.”
I felt disconnected from death, as if it didn’t exist. And sometimes, in those moments, it felt like neither did I.
Aftermath
On Sunday, October 12th, I didn’t get out of bed until 4 p.m.—and even then, I didn’t want to. I tried to process that my dad was dead. On Monday, October 13th, I woke up and got ready for work. I stood in front of my bathroom mirror and said, “What am I doing? Going to work? I guess I just don’t know what to do with myself.”
At 11:30 a.m., I got a text. I was told his face was “still viewable,” and if I wanted, I could come and pay my respects before the cremation. My dad didn’t want a service. He just wanted to be cremated. I left work and made the hour-and-a-half drive to the funeral home.
I saw his body in the processing room. His hair—wild and unruly like his spirit—spilled across the pillow. And I said, “We tried, Dad. We really did. I’m sorry we could never get it together. I know we both wanted too.” Then I left and made the long drive home.
The Shape of Grief
Grief is a wild ride. I’ve come to think it’s like snowflakes or fingerprints—no two are the same. Each one mirrors the soul of the person you lost.
This grief feels different. With my husband, I was grieving the good—the life we built, the future we planned but would never live. With my father, I grieve the never was. The man who gave me life but never a home. The memories we never had. The future I could never picture with him in it. Still, I want our souls to be at peace with each other—as much as we can be.
The Storm
As I said, it’s not death that scares me—it’s how I keep finding ways to live through it. And maybe that doesn’t make sense. Maybe it doesn’t have to.
I’ll navigate these layered, complicated waters like I always have. I’ll look up at the sky and realize I’m in the eye of the storm — only to know, in my heart, I am the storm. This is my sea. And I can only ever save myself.
How do I know?
Because when the sea finally settles, you’re left staring at the wreckage of who you were. You pull the shrapnel from the tide and piece together what’s left — whatever fragments you can find — and you keep going.
The story that follows is where I first learned how to build something from that wreckage. I never published it — until now. Maybe it will help someone else find their way back, too.
30 Alternate Routes
Sometimes the only way forward is through the wreckage you thought would finish you. This isn’t a story about dying — it’s about learning how to live when you almost didn’t.
30 Alternate Routes
I could hear the shifting and pausing of paper as a nurse sat guarding the door, flipping through her magazine. Every few turns of the page, a sigh would creep from her lips into my room. It was July 3; fireworks were splashing bursts of color across the night sky and casting reflections along the room’s walls. What was I doing here, I thought. No specific thing led me here, but rather a haphazard series of dysfunctional events—otherwise known as “life.” Apparently, those events were enough to put me in the mental hospital, where I was placed on suicide watch.
I sat in this cold room with my feet propped up on the windowsill, drawing my socks in an old sketchbook. I was all alone; even my shrink had abandoned me. When I called to tell her that I was in the hospital, she said quite frankly (after six years of therapy), “I don’t think I can help you anymore.” So here I am in this low place, and even she can’t help? I was at a loss. The phone hung limp in my hand as I stared into the distance. My brain tried desperately to lasso any thought that might be useful; instead, it began to recite the events of the day before. My mind always took me back to places I didn’t want to relive… why should being here be any different?
On the afternoon of July 2, I went to work at the part-time job I had managed to hold onto for over four years while attending my first (of four) colleges. It was a decent job at a shipping company with health benefits. In my early twenties, that was hard to come by. I could have stayed there and had a very content life, but it was not in the cards. Anyway, I seemed normal, and so did my life. That is why everyone was shocked when I wound up in the hospital—including me.
Did you ever do something and not realize you were doing it to yourself? That was me. For me, every day was typical. Things that happened, I either had to accept and move on or become a victim of circumstance. I had chosen the better route. Unfortunately, choosing that route meant ignoring many things that impacted my little heart. I might have seen that if it had not already been broken and still bleeding. Again, not in the cards. I was sad inside myself, and because I had ignored myself for so long, I didn’t know who the sadness belonged to. I just assumed it was because of me. All of it. Every ill-fitting feeling that found its way into my soul was my fault.
That night, I went out like I usually did with my friends. A night of drinking, dancing and the typical weekend antics. When I got home, I could not sleep. I suffered from bouts of insomnia where all I would do was think, think, then think some more. I was so good at thinking that I thought I would try to trick myself into not thinking. That really takes practice, you know. Have you ever tried not thinking about anything? It just makes you feel more about everything.
At about four in the morning, I decided to jog, like most “normal” people would. I couldn’t shake the thoughts—the regrets, the loneliness of not being understood, of being me. I felt like Forrest Gump; I kept running back and forth across the bridge while contemplating jumping. There was not one specific reason I wanted to jump. Nothing had occurred that night to make me feel worse, but I was there.
At one point I stopped running, stood there looking down, my mind racing and my heart screaming. I was just so tired. Tired of moving. Tired of leaving things I loved behind. Tired of starting over. Tired of feeling like I didn’t belong anywhere. Tired of feeling invisible. I felt like such a disappointment to everyone. I was only consistent in letting people down and wondered if it would be easier to end it. Looking down, it seemed promising enough.
I have often heard people say that suicide is a selfish act. I am not so sure. I had no sense of worth. Without a sense of worth, there is not anything you can offer as a person, because you have to mean something to yourself first. (Had I known this then!) I did not mean anything to me, which is precisely why I was sure I was a burden to anyone who came in contact with me. I could not see the gifts, the talent, the beauty of who I was—mainly because no one ever taught me how. No one taught me how to value myself. As a matter of fact, most of my childhood was spent in survival mode.
I could have been the trailer-park poster child for dysfunctional families. Money was few and far between, and if you had it, you had better not spend it, because God knows when it would come around again. There was never enough of anything: not enough love, money, time, food… anything. Our family motto was everyone for himself! We made being non-expressive into an art form. Going to the local food bank or the church for clothes was considered a family outing. We didn’t have much growing up, but the upside was that I became highly resourceful and creative, which later helped my artistic career. It wasn’t doing me any good on this bridge except helping me to imagine what the world would look like without me.
I stared at the water below. My mind moved in and out of reality and memories that were hard to accept, let alone talk about. I didn’t trust anyone enough to open up. I also didn’t think there would be anyone who would actually listen. No one was even watching. I wanted to scream out my insides. I imagined them coming up through my throat and landing in the river below. They would be colorful, I thought, because in there, I was! I was, I tell you—I surely was. And I, indeed, was sad because no one could see that color in me.
One defining memory was the night on the bridge, was when my mother left my father. My father was an extremely talented musician. On weekends, he could be found playing a gig somewhere in town. During the week, he was a contractor, building houses. Despite the encouragement of those around him, he didn’t have the self-esteem to realize how talented he was musically. It was also ironic that he built houses when ours was figuratively and literally, falling apart.
My father headed out the door to play his weekend gig, and my mom, peering like a scared child, watched from the window as he walked to the car. When he drove away, she entered the kitchen and looked out another window to ensure he was gone. She then opened the kitchen drawer where she kept the brown paper lunch bags. She grabbed a lunch bag, turned to me, and said something I would never forget:
“Put as many pairs of underwear in here as you can.”
I took the brown paper lunch bag and filled it with my underwear. That was it. That is all I am left with. It’s funny—because we moved so much, at this point in our lives we were not asking any questions about such demands. I just remember feeling excited about this new adventure!
I can’t remember the exact age, but I think I was around five. My mom would have been about twenty-seven. She had three kids. She would have had four of us to leave with that night, but two years earlier my little sister had died right after she was born. My mom spent eight years surviving domestic violence, but tonight she would not take one more hit.
A woman pulled up in a car while my mom quickly ushered us out the door. I may have been young and excited, but I also had many questions going through my mind: Who were these people in this car with us? Where were we going? Why wasn’t my dad coming with us? Were we in trouble? What about my stuffed animals and the kittens? And most importantly, what was waiting for us when we got there? My mom plus three children divided by eight years of wreckage equals a brown lunch bag filled with my underwear.
That drive was one of the longest of my life. I can still see out the window when I close my eyes to this day, thirty-four years later. It was raining, and I was on the passenger side in the back seat. Every time we passed the streetlights, they made the prettiest reflections in the window. I took my tiny finger and traced a smiley face into the fogged-up glass. I liked it because the rain made all the colors blur, looking more like a painting with every finger mark.
We would spend the next few weeks in a women’s shelter. The amount of courage it required to do what my mom did probably came from the same place I get mine—deep within. Together, she and my father were a train wreck, but she had the mind enough to recognize it. Neither one of them could ever give the other what they needed, no matter if she stayed or left. So she chose to leave.
Before they split, we moved from place to place, school to school, and with each move I became more and more apathetic; that didn’t change after they split either. My father would show up, beating on doors until my mom let him in. The fighting would ensue, but at least the places we lived now usually had other people like us living in them, too.
Most people think moving is a great thing—a chance to start over! But try doing it each year, sometimes two or three times. It wears you out, and home becomes anywhere that you land. Moving, and many other things, became a usual way of life for me.
I graduated with a bunch of people I hardly knew. There wasn’t consistent education, which led to difficulties in different subjects. This escalated into bad behavior all the way around. Suspensions, detentions, and threats rolled through my high school years. I had been to at least eight different schools by the time I graduated. There was nothing you could tell me that I didn’t already know. I had been in charge of myself and my younger sibling for years and was a force to be reckoned with. I was stubborn, angry, and unruly. But inside, I was scared, hurting, and confused.
During those years, many people were woven into the fabric of my being, and each one played a part in salvaging parts of my life. One person in particular was a man named Jeff. He happened to be a pastor at the new church my mom was attending. My mother sent me to speak with him one afternoon. I was not in the mindset to have some person I barely knew tell me about my life or what I should be doing, even though I was just fourteen. I did not like him prying and was very vocal about it. But there was one very odd thing: Jeff could see through me and speak to me like a mind reader. He not only understood me but really wanted to help me. Even though I knew he was sincere, I was highly leery at first, like a dog who has been beaten too many times, but after a few meetings I began to trust him.
Through the next five years, I loved him like a father. It was because I believed in him believing in me that made me want to be a better person. Even in the face of adversity and my stubbornness, he emulated so much compassion, love, and understanding that I felt everyone should have had the opportunity to have someone like him. He invested in the person I was and even supported my dream of being an artist.
I told him my dreams and hopes without reserve. When I was six years old, I would wear my fancy royal-blue barrette that my grandmother bought me and be transported to Paris. Then, at twelve, my father bought me a huge plastic Coca-Cola bank for Christmas. Sure, his dog chewed it up and it had bite marks. I didn’t care; it was filled with my hard-earned money, planning to go to Paris like all the other famous artists. I started making a list of things I wanted to go and see when I was older, of course. Jeff supported all of these ideas.
Then, suddenly, Jeff was diagnosed with cancer and left my life almost as quickly as he came in. At his funeral, I made a commitment that I would spend every day showing people how to believe in themselves the way he showed me. Jeff was why I didn’t jump that day… it was a compilation of fortunate events.
Standing there on that bridge that night, I thought of him. I was taught people who committed suicide didn’t go to heaven, and I was not going to risk ever seeing him again. Looking back on all this, I know he already lived within me, and there was no way I could be separated from him. Looking back, I realize that my mother really saved me. I would find out years later that she was orchestrating the entire situation through him. She would tell me she knew she couldn’t reach me because of all the damage done, and the only way to get through was through him. I love her for that.
During my stay at the hospital, one of the nurses huffed into my room during mid-morning rest and placed herself on the foot of my bed. I was barely awake. She plopped down on my bed with a purpose, looked me square in the eye, and said very sternly, “What are you doing here? Some people belong here. You aren’t one of them. Get out of bed, get dressed, and get out there with the reset of the group.”
She was furious at me, and I did not know why. How did she know where I belonged? I started to think about it and realized she had a good point. I really didn’t want to be here. I just needed to figure out where I was supposed to go. So I followed her instructions, got up, and went out with the rest of the group. After all, I was fine and had nothing to talk about. But I did as she suggested and sat through hours of group therapy and private prodding as well. I was mostly quiet and paid attention, especially in group therapy. To be honest, there is a lot I do not remember about that time in my life, but the nurse being stern with me was the most crucial part, even though I can’t remember her name to this day.
It felt like so much of my life was pressed together like an overloaded peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, with the people around me layering both thicker and thicker until I oozed out the sides. They would look at the counter I was on and say, yeah, I should clean up around that sandwich. But they never would. Years later, the bread is hard as a rock, the flies have gotten their fill, and my insides are still crusty and collected on the countertop. Yes, I had nothing to talk about in those therapy groups.
I may make recovering from this sound easy, but I assure you it was not. When I went in there, I didn’t think they would keep me. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who felt like that, because they were prepared for all my excuses of why I had to leave. Instead, they only instructed my mother to go get the things I requested, and once she got back with them, they took half of them away. I don’t remember how long I was there; I just know it was almost as long as that ride with my brown paper lunch bag filled with underwear.
After I was released, it was “strongly suggested” I didn’t live alone, so I moved in with my mother. It’s not really something you want to do at twenty-two, but I was trying to make things right. I was on at least seven different medications and not so stable, to say the least.
One night, probably about a year and a half later, I woke up from a wild dream in the middle of the night. I was in this room where everything was white: the walls, the oversized couch, the animal-fur rug on the floor, and the coffee table—all pure white. I was reclining on the sofa with a knife, tracing my wrist vertically. I pushed in, and that white room looked so pretty with that red blood flowing everywhere. It felt so real it woke me up, and I went into the bathroom to wash my face.
I wish I could remember the date, but it is all hazy. Regardless, that night’s dream changed my life, because as I looked at myself in that mirror, I realized something: I had no idea who I was. I looked into my face, and a stranger looked back at me. All those meds and sessions and words flying in the air led me further away from who I was. I don’t know if this is how it happens for everyone, but I can tell you that night something in my mind and soul engaged to the point where I was at a pivotal moment.
I decided that my problems were on a spiritual level, and if I wanted—really wanted—I could get better. I wasn’t meant to be a statistic; not meant to be diagnosed as bipolar, borderline personality disorder, or whatever else they told me. I had dreams! My only choice at that time was to get better. I had to look inside myself and be ready to move forward. This was it. This was all I had—the only chance to live my life. I figured I had better do it right because, at the end of my life, I wanted to say I lived it—and lived it to the fullest.
I hadn’t ever prepared to live past twenty-two, and guess what—I did! I was here! I made it! All that other crap didn’t matter. All the reasons I had before for not living, I would now throw off that bridge. They were only excuses anyway—to cover up a fear, a pain—and it didn’t matter anymore. The only thing that mattered was that I would go out there and live my life.
It took some time, but I eventually stayed out of the hospital and off the medications. Sure, I had bouts of random self-medicating moments laced with bad decisions, but I didn’t allow it to control my life. I slowly worked my way down to one psychologist. By the time I was around twenty-five, life was becoming manageable. Don’t misunderstand me; I was in and out of that place three times before I would indeed “get it,” and then once I had “gotten it,” I would have moments of wondering where it went!
A few years before this incident, a friend from that time in my life suggested I make a list of thirty things to do before I turned thirty. I revisited that list and did some tweaking. At first, the 30 list kept me going, but then it became a reminder to JUST LIVE. I am naturally a free spirit, but this list kept me accountable and striving. I made the list because inside my soul was a fire. A fire filled with dreams, the places I wanted to see, and the life I wanted to live that I had tried to escape just years before.
Things went well at times and did not go so well at times. But I worked at it. People came into my life, and my soul’s fabric strengthened. I read my list of positive affirmations daily. I kept a journal—or twenty. I got mad at times; hell, I got downright angry at things. But it didn’t beat me. My family and friends tolerated and supported my journey to know myself. I started to surround myself with positive forces. As I grew and my mind expanded, so did my ability to deal with the layers of various challenges, past and present. By the tenth anniversary of the bridge situation, I had almost forgotten the entire bit. The grace of self forgiveness led me to that place. Or the aftereffects of all the medications!
I continued to write in goals on my 30 list. I tacked it up close to my computer so I would see it every day. It did its job. It reminded me to live my life and to trust myself. Through these different goals, my life began to unfold like origami: difficult at first, still, once you get the hang of it, it gets easier. However, I do not advocate dwelling on the past, because everyone has had challenges in their own way. What does interest me is what someone is willing to DO about it to change their life. This is what I was ready to do.
It hasn’t been all rainbows and ponies for me; things have been hard, and I have climbed out of some profound dark places. But what life has been is an adventure—an awkward, beautiful, fantastic adventure. And yet, sometimes, I am still that little girl in the back seat, on the passenger side, making smiley faces in the window, wondering where I am going.
Do you know—will you ever know—what it is like to live your life? I am not just talking about making choices and seeing a few things that interest you. I am talking about what makes your heart swirl and sputter into new ideas. The things that twist and turn you into yourself until you have to do it. The things that make you realize, yes, this is my life, and if I don’t do this, I will regret it.
My wish for everyone is that at least once in your lifetime, you will have that feeling. When passion takes hold, the feeling lures you into the heart of who you are and extends you so far outward that it captures the dream. So go on, make a list, tack it on your wall, put it in your journal, and read it to the world. But please do yourself a favor and start living your life; it may inspire others to live theirs.
Here is the list:
I had seen the sun rise over the ocean on the Atlantic (#1) but never set on the Pacific (#2). It was a January day, and the sun was just beginning to set. I drove frantically to find a place to pull off by the beach. After a few intense moments of freaking out about seeing this event and how important it was, we found a small beach. It was beautiful. The waves sliced into the rocks while the sun went down. Orange and pink colors lit up the sky, and three seagulls stationed themselves on the beach before the sun. It was definitely a moment I am glad I did not miss.
I knocked out a few other things on the list during the same trip. Vegas (#3) was the first thing. I just had to see it because I had heard so much about it. Since I had never gone to a casino, I decided to do it big and go to the prime spot. After Vegas, it was a road trip through Death Valley (#4). Something worth mentioning is that when we were at the bottom of Death Valley, I got out of the car and started walking out into the desert. I came upon a set of rocks, and on further investigation, I could see that they spelled out a word. Ironically, that word was hope. Enough said.
I traveled down to the Grand Canyon (#6), and you could feel the vastness and see all its striking colors, even though it was an overcast day. I continued on to San Francisco (#5) and then, as a bonus, clipped the edge of the California Redwood Forest. Initially, I intended to drive across the country, but that would not be the case as time and luck would have it. At any rate, I made my way through those areas, and the rest of the trip is now on my 40 list, but that is a whole other story.
I made it to Paris (#7). I stood at the top of the Eiffel Tower and gazed at the city I had longed to see since childhood. It cost more than what was in that Coca-Cola bank, but it was worth it. I also met a girl from Iceland at the top of the tower; at the time, I had never met anyone from Iceland! It inspired me to put it on my 40 list.
Back to the 30: I stood before the Mona Lisa (#8) at the Louvre (#9) and finally saw all those paintings from my textbooks in person. I took my time with all those paintings and sculptures I used to read about. There are certain things that photographs cannot replicate. Maybe it is because I am a visual person, but seeing the brushstrokes of a master painter left me in awe. Another incredible moment was looking at the Leaning Tower of Pisa (#10) set up against the landscape. The grandness of being in a particular place and seeing firsthand the magnificence of something such as that structure was breathtaking.
I walked the streets of Barcelona in Spain (#11), which was only on the list once I arrived. Barcelona was such a wonderful surprise. There was this one cathedral you could walk up to the top and see for miles. I can’t remember the name of it, but I do remember the feeling, and I can see the landscape in my mind. I remember being filled with so much gratitude that I was able to experience this fantastic moment.
I sat along the Mediterranean Sea (#12) and took a picture of my toes in the sand just because I could. I ventured into Rome and ate lunch by the Vatican (#13). Michelangelo was my first love, and as I stood looking up at the Sistine Chapel (#14), there were no words to describe the overwhelming beauty of that space. I felt reverence while looking up at all those figures that took hours to bring to life. As I said, Michelangelo was one of the first painters I ever fell in love with, and rightfully so. The world is gifted to have such a talented artist, and we are privileged to still experience that beauty today.
Ireland (#15) was an exciting trip with my good friend. It was snowing really badly when we were driving to the airport—so much so that, as we were on the highway, I actually got out of the car and was walking down the highway throwing snowballs at the other cars! We did make it, though. We kissed the Blarney Stone, and I learned how to drive on the opposite side of the road for the first time. I nearly gave her a panic attack as I tried to do this, but we came out unscathed.
I traveled to Mexico (#16) for a hot second, but this only happened when I was thirty-one. I have been fortunate enough to make it back there—the Yucatán Peninsula, to be exact—and it is a beautiful place.
I was already in England and ventured into Scotland (#17), where some of my ancestors on both sides of my family came from. It was a short road trip with a couple of great friends and many laughs.
I went to the Van Gogh Museum (#18) in Holland because, along with Michelangelo, Van Gogh is another artist I genuinely enjoy. I read a few books about his life story, which intrigued me enough to want to experience the museum firsthand. I have been fortunate because, on my way to Africa last year, I had a two-day stop-off in Amsterdam again.
I was in New Orleans (#19) on a southern road trip with another group of friends. I was lucky enough to have seen it before the hurricane. The architecture was beautiful, and after we left, we continued exploring more of the South before heading back east.
I left for Chicago (#20) with fifty bucks and a great friend on a last-minute decision. This is the same friend I visited years later in England and Australia. I also had a very spiritual moment in Chicago, which led me to begin my spiritual journey—but that is a different story!
I went to NASCAR (#21) and Daytona Bike Week (#22) just because I wanted to see what it was like. I went to Niagara Falls (#23) when I graduated high school, and my uncle took me on a helicopter ride over the falls. That was also a bonus because I had never been on a helicopter before. I have since made it back there twice.
My mother took me to The Phantom of the Opera (#24) for my birthday. It seemed fitting to check one off for the day I was born. Another goal on the list was to move out of Pittsburgh (#25). I headed over to New York for a few years, which helped me launch my next goal: paint sets on movies (#26). This is what I now do for a living. It is incredible how one thing can effortlessly lead to the next when you follow your heart’s desire.
Another thing on my list was to take a karate class (#27). When I did this, I severely lacked self-confidence. I would get very nervous about any sport or physical activity because I always felt self-conscious. Even though I didn’t have to go too far to do this, it was one of the most challenging tasks on my list because I had to stand in front of everyone and perform these moves!
Two things on my list were to see New Zealand (#28) and Australia (#29). I did this in my 30th year as a birthday present to myself. For six weeks, I was at the Great Barrier Reef, walking in rainforests, and even took a helicopter ride that landed on a glacier in New Zealand. I will never forget how beautiful that specific event was. The air was the most incredible, crispest air I have ever tasted. I also walked eight hours through the Tongariro Crossing, where I saw mirror lakes, glacier lakes, and a volcano. I could fill a book with what my sights inhaled during that time. I have so many great memories from that trip.
#30: I had wanted a Jeep Wrangler since I was sixteen, so that is precisely what I got at thirty-one. It wasn’t technically before my thirties, but it was in my thirties, so I still count it.
Present Day Thoughts:
I wrote this fifteen years ago. It’s weird to read it now.
I continued to make lists for each decade: 40 things before I turn 40, 50, 60 and all the way up to 90. I think it is a good practice to maintain a lust for life. But, honestly, I don’t really have to refer to those lists anymore and I attribute it to one reason: having learned to love myself. Creating a sense of self worth, has made all the difference in how I choose to live and love everything around me.
Jolene, thank you for writing this and thank you for deciding to share it at this time. I think it was meant for me to read it. Circumnavigating through life is a journey written by each of us. I’m glad to know that you are not not a survivor but a thriver! Inspiring others while telling your tales. Tour talents are vast and endless. I am grateful that I know you, that I read your works and appreciate the feels I get from your art and prose. Have you ever thought of combining your paintings with your words? I’m an imagining it now. I hope I see you soon. Patrick is so proud!
Jolene, thank you for writing this and thank you for deciding to share it at this time. I think it was meant for me to read it. Circumnavigating through life is a journey written by each of us. I’m glad to know that you are not not a survivor but a thriver! Inspiring others while telling your tales. Tour talents are vast and endless. I am grateful that I know you, that I read your works and appreciate the feels I get from your art and prose. Have you ever thought of combining your paintings with your words? I’m an imagining it now. I hope I see you soon. Patrick is so proud!