Unlonelying Myself
Letting go, holding on, and finding home.
I use "America" stylistically in this piece, reflecting a common linguistic practice, particularly outside the United States, where people often colloquially refer to the United States of America as "America."
Four years ago, following my myomectomy, I was graced with a vivid dream that guided me to sell, donate, and give away all my possessions, bid farewell to my home and studio in Toronto, and embrace a new chapter in the Berkeley hills. Two years before this transformative experience, I immersed myself in the study of dreams in Berkeley. The messages from my ancestors, animal kin, and my own body via dreamwork were obvious. I harbored no doubt, no hesitation, and no lingering questions. These dreams had consistently steered me toward my destined path.
Once my uterus was free from fibroids, I moved forward with ease, lightness, and clarity. Within a month of my open surgery, I recovered, tattooed my arm to mark my initiation, and let go of my life as I knew it. I had no plans, savings, or idea of what would transpire over the next few years.Â
This four-year initiation begs to be chronicled; there's much to express, reflect upon, digest, and withhold. And yet, I'm contemplating how my entire life, particularly these last four years, taught me the profound lesson of letting go.
Whenever I arrive at a comfortable place in my life, I have this burning need to do a 180 on my path. Behind all this change, there is always something that endures: a heartfelt devotion to continuously move beyond all definitions I have of myself. I've walked with dark teachers all my life. From war survival, witnessing horrors of humanity as a child, being cut off from my roots and belonging, then transplanted to a foreign land, to reimagining my entire path and moving through constant cycles of death and life. In this process, I've been blessed by friends, family, earth guides, and softness only fire births to life.
The idea of home has always eluded me. I seldom experienced a feeling of belonging, yet in every place I landed, a sense of home always enveloped me.
Becoming a mother altered this dynamic. The longing for home intensified, but so did the desire to expose my son to many diverse environments. I want him to know the world and the world to know him. I wish for him to be loved by many, extending beyond the love of Ben and myself, which is why we decided to leave America.
Living in America has been the most transformative, spiritually grounding, healing, initiatory pilgrimage, and one of the loneliest times I have ever experienced.
After all, I see now that I came to America to meet the love of my life, birth the love of my life, and embrace myself as the love of my life. And for that, I will always be grateful, and pieces of me will always live there, especially in the Mojave and Ohlone lands.
Motherhood showed me what's important, necessary, and non-negotiable.
The deeper I delved into motherhood, the more apparent it became that the American reality was far from the global dream being marketed. It lacked emphasis on community, healthcare, motherhood, and inclusivity. I didn't have the things I needed the most, and my nervous system got out of balance.
Although my connection with the profound medicine of the indigenous lands and her kin nurtured and inspired me, little else did. It felt like I was constantly navigating a state of survival. The small community I encountered in California appeared to prioritize hyper-individualism and the pursuit of celebrity and fame.Â
I often found myself navigating the profound transformation of motherhood alone, grappling with its various layers—grief, joy, growth, yearning, expansion, and that immense love that wants to be shared with everyone.
And despite it all, unlike when I left Canada with clarity, deciding to move back was dusty, complex, and doubtful. Maybe it's because I dislike the cold and dread it. It may be the call of rural living that my soul cannot ignore.
It could be because I formed a close bond with the Mojave, the quails, coyotes, and rocks. Walking barefoot, even on sand filled with cholla needles, became second nature. It could be the starry nights, the profound quietude, and the sunsets that defy description. But, above all, it's because this land witnessed my transformation into a mother. My son was born there, and letting go this time was incredibly challenging, yet I knew it was necessary.
I let go of my past life with ease and precision four years ago.
Now, all I want is to hold on.
Hold on a little tighter to Aki's chubby cheeks. Cling to every precious second we share. Embrace each sunset, every snuggle, each breastfeeding session, every burst of laughter, every morning croissant (or as he calls it, "hokan"), every song, and every new word he utters. I want to keep every book we read, every clothing item he's outgrown. I yearn to hold onto holding him, never wanting this beautiful connection to end.
In my maiden days, I thought time was abundant; motherhood, however, unveils our mortality. It's a persistent lesson, nudging me to be present in every possible moment. I'm not a pro at it, but I'm practicing—drawing all of myself back into my body whenever my mind strays or worrying about the future creeps in. I tell myself to cradle each moment with awe and appreciation and not worry about letting go.Â
The moment will naturally pass; I don't have to intervene.Â
The next one will emerge independently; I don't have to intervene.Â
As I let go of belongings and readied myself for a big move, a deep realization dawned: wherever I am, I already have everything I need.
This makes me think of the Zen concept of emptiness or "mu."
In Zen philosophy, emptiness suggests that all things are intricately connected and interdependent, and the true nature of reality transcends our conceptual understanding. As I shed physical things, the essence of letting go extends beyond my grasp, embracing the interconnected and embodied nature of existence.
A week ago, we touched down in Toronto. My mother flew from Bosnia to meet Aki for the first time, and our entire family welcomed us at the airport with flowers and balloons. Joyful tears streamed down my face, not just from the warmth of family—though our relationship is far from ideal—but also from witnessing Aki's smile and comfort as if he had known these people all along. He felt at home.
My friend Ivana graciously offered her one-bedroom space to us, choosing to sacrifice her comfort by sleeping on the couch. In anticipation of my arrival, her mother prepared not only my favorite apple pie but also a variety of other delicious dishes she knows I love. Unannounced, a few friends pleasantly surprised us by showing up, and a "welcome home" sign adorned the wall.
My nervous system relaxed with a deep, satisfying sigh, and I was again reminded of the genuine sense of belonging and togetherness.
With love,
Vanja
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