Here Lies Kellie. She Had Plans.

Hi, my name is Kellie, and I am a control freak, which is the funny way of saying that control is how I try to feel safe.

What can I say? I like things the way I like them. I like to plan for what might go wrong, and preferably for where the coffee and bathrooms are.

Sometimes this serves me well. I can plan events, projects, dinner parties, family gatherings, and trips to perfection. The problem is when it doesn’t serve me. As someone who seeks calm as a way of life, trying to control life sometimes creates the exact opposite. When I am not careful, life can become one long exercise in hyper-vigilance. And that, my friends, is f@#*ing exhausting.

Recently, I found myself on a trip where almost nothing went as I had planned or expected. For much of it, frankly, I felt pretty out of control, physically and emotionally, which meant that internally, I felt the least safe I have in a very long while.

New Mexico had been on my bucket list for more than 30 years. I first became fascinated by Santa Fe and the desert when I lived in Texas. I wanted to visit then, but my boyfriend at the time insisted that if we went, we should camp our way across West Texas. Now, lest I sound like a complete diva, I have been camping. I even enjoyed it.

For one night.

But sleeping my way, in a tent, across West Texas into New Mexico, with scorpions, snakes, and God knows what else? Unless the tent was in a Ritz-Carlton. Absolutely not.

Eventually, I left Texas and moved to New York City, where I had more familiar and manageable things to contend with, like pickpockets on the streets and rats in the subway. New Mexico remained unchecked on the bucket list for a long time.

Then, recently, an email about Tracee Stanley’s Rest & Create Writers Retreat, which I had been wanting to attend for several years, appeared in my inbox. Life was feeling a little stale, and the idea of writing and resting in the same landscape where Georgia O’Keeffe had painted and found so much inspiration felt irresistible. I signed up before I could talk myself out of it and decided I would figure out the finances and logistics later.

I landed in Albuquerque feeling tired and off. I hadn’t slept well that previous night. I felt sluggish and uncomfortable in my skin. A friend I was looking forward to visiting, who lives in New Mexico, was unexpectedly out of town.

This is usually the point when I start to shut down. What I thought was going to happen wasn’t happening. I wanted to settle into my room, take a hot shower, get into my pajamas, order room service, and regroup. I wanted to map things out and make a plan for the next day.

Okay. I wanted to gain some control.

But my newly discovered cousin Jason, whom I had met only the year before, had offered to take the hour drive from where he lives in Santa Fe to have dinner with me. I thought it was such a nice gesture, but another part of me wanted to politely decline, disappear into my hotel room, and reemerge the next day, feeling more steady.

But his enthusiasm to connect seemed genuine, and something in me said, say yes.

I had liked Jason immediately when we met at my cousin’s 90th birthday celebration the summer before. I hadn’t grown up knowing my mother’s side of the family very well, and I knew few people at the party. Jason made a point of coming over and talking to me, something this introvert, who despises small talk, deeply appreciated.

During that first conversation, I shared a vivid memory of his father, David. I had met him only once, when I was six or seven years old, at a family picnic in Baltimore. I was painfully shy, but David paid attention to me in a way few adults did. Together, we scoured the backyard for fireflies, which I had never seen in upstate New York where I grew up, and put them in a jar, carefully punching holes in the lid. So they can breathe, he said.

We sat side by side on the stoop, watching them flicker as it got dark. It remains one of my earliest memories of something magical. And here I was, all these years later, in New Mexico, having a lovely dinner with his charming, interesting son, whose existence I was not even aware of a year ago. Pretty magical in itself.

When I returned to my hotel, I spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to take the perfect picture of the full moon. Every photo came out blurry, as night photos often do. Finally, I gave up, turned off all the lights, and just sat by the window for at least an hour, looking at the moon over the Sandia Mountains, feeling connected to something bigger than myself that I couldn’t quite name.

The next afternoon, a van was supposed to pick up several of us and take us to Cañones, New Mexico, to the retreat center, tucked into the Jemez Mountains with a view of Cerro Pedernal, the mountain Georgia O’Keeffe loved, and that I now love, too.

It was just before the planned pickup time at 1:30 when I reached the hotel lobby with my overstuffed suitcase. A message popped up in our retreat group chat. One of the women hadn’t even left Denver yet. Ugh. What? She hasn’t left yet?

My first thought was, I could have stayed in my room longer and been comfortable. My control freak immediately kicked in. How long would we be waiting? Could I go back to my room? Would we miss the start of the retreat? Should I rent a car?

Then I took a breath. Let it go. You don’t have to control it all. Just be here. You wanted to be here.

Since I opted not to spring into action and “fix it,” there was nothing to do but wait. The hotel restaurant was now closed until dinner. So, I bought a bag of Chex Mix, settled onto a couch in the corner of the lobby, and read a book. The van arrived two and a half hours later. By the time we headed toward the mountains, I was tired, hungry, and now a little irritated.

The drive there was at once breathtaking and disconcerting.

To someone from the East Coast, the Southwestern landscape feels like another planet: desert, adobe houses, enormous rock formations, magnificent open sky and puffy white clouds, roadrunners, which I had previously only seen in cartoons, mountains, and cliffs.

Big, really high cliffs.

At points, the road looked too narrow for our van to fit. At others, I could see straight down into a ravine. And there were no guardrails.

Guardrails are the mantra of a control freak. They assure you that even if you veer a little off course, something is there to keep you from going completely over the edge. However, there were no guardrails here. Not a one. I felt so far outside my comfort zone now that I would need my passport to get back.

I was relieved when we finally pulled up to the retreat center’s main house, a wooden barn-like structure, with an endlessly tall A-frame ceiling, comfy leather sofas, and a kitchen.

And then I discovered my room.

New Mexico was experiencing a rare heat wave, with temperatures well into the high 90s. My room was on the first floor of the barn, where most meals and activities would take place. My door was in the dead center of everything, right next to the dining table.

When I saw it, my introverted soul dropped straight to the floor. There would be nowhere to escape to. Nowhere to be alone.

For a moment, every old instinct showed up: complain, ask for another room, control this situation… and maybe threaten to leave.

But another voice said, breathe and be here. You wanted to be here.

I’ve had a lot of practice with that voice over my life, but particularly in the past two years. I bought a house and got laid off from my job within six weeks of each other, and much of what has happened since has been beyond my control. I feel fortunate to have a financial cushion to see me through. But I had to figure out how to ride this latest wave of life. At some point, learning to go with the flow, as they say, stopped being a quaint idea and became a means of self-preservation.

Still, it was 95 degrees, and after several hours in a van with mostly strangers, this introvert wanted nothing more than to shut the door for a few minutes and collapse onto a bed in front of some frosty air conditioning.

There was just one problem. There wasn’t any.

I opened the door to my room and was immediately hit with a wave of heat, and thought, F*%@!

Not only was there no air conditioning, but there was no window. A tiny fan sat on a bedside table blowing hot air. The room was just big enough for a queen-sized bed, the table, and a small desk with a chair. I dragged in my much-too-heavy suitcase and looked around. A luggage rack maybe? Nope. A hanger? A hook? Somewhere to put my freshly pressed linen? Nada.

I thought to myself, Damn. Life has changed. Not working full time, I had wrestled with whether I could afford this trip at all, so I chose the least expensive accommodations. I would have my own room and share a bathroom, which already felt like an incredible sacrifice for someone who loves being alone and will happily pay extra for a 4- or 5-star hotel.

I had two choices: focus on the discomfort or focus on the gift. I chose the gift.

The retreat owner told us It’s very warm, but it cools down at night. Without a window, I was not sure how that would help my situation, but I looked forward to it all the same.

I changed clothes and headed to dinner. Afterward, I stepped outside. My cousin had reminded me to look for the stars at night. I looked up and my breath caught in my chest. It was the most magnificent, starriest sky I had ever seen. I could actually see the Milky Way. Tears streamed down my face as I stood there looking up at that enormous New Mexico sky.

Suddenly, the day’s inconveniences felt distant and very small. This was why I had come. To marvel at something. To find a little magic.

And wait...

Was that a breeze?

----------
Tea and Spaciousness

The rhythm of the retreat was intentionally spacious. Our days included a tea ceremony, silent breakfast, Yoga Nidra, afternoon discussion, shared meals, and long stretches of free time. Everything was optional.

I appreciated that freedom. I’ve been on retreats where the schedule itself begins to feel restrictive. It can feel as though you’ve vacated your regular life only to acquire another list of things you’re supposed to do.

This felt different. There was room to wander, read, write, nap, chat, think, or just be.

That kind of spaciousness can be revealing. When we step outside our normal routines and become quiet, things have a way of coming up. A journal entry, a conversation, or a walk alone after a meal can uncover feelings we have been too busy to notice. As a retreat veteran, I’ve learned not to overreact to those feelings if and when they arise. Instead, the practice is to notice them, and maybe get curious about what they might be trying to tell me.

Each morning began at 6:30 am with what became one of my favorite parts of the retreat: a tea ceremony. Six-thirty felt very early after a sleepless night in my hot little room, but I didn’t want to miss the experience. It meant getting up even earlier to negotiate the shared bathroom with four other people.

Naturally, my controlling mind had already worked through every possible scenario. I could think of few things worse than sitting cross-legged on the floor at 6:30 in the morning and realizing I had to pee, or something else. So, I got myself up, handled my business, and joined the group.

We sat in a U-shape on meditation cushions and shared several rounds of tea in silence. It was a quiet, reflective way to begin the day. Sitting cross-legged on the floor first thing in the morning was not particularly comfortable. As beautiful as the ceremony was, it became another exercise in letting go.

I could focus on my leg cramping or falling asleep. Or I could focus on the fact that I was here, in community with this lovely group of people, drinking exotic teas with unfamiliar tastes, in a barn in New Mexico, far away from a life that lately had begun to feel a little too routine.

I drank in the tea, the quiet smiles and eye contact across the room, and the gentle, elegant way Tracee, our retreat leader, poured each cup. There was something almost hypnotic about it. No rushing. No talking. Just tea, presence, and one another.

Later in the morning, after a silent breakfast, where there was one pot of coffee for 13 people (I usually drink half a pot at home by myself), we practiced Yoga Nidra. To provide a very simplistic definition, Yoga Nidra is a guided meditative practice that brings the body into deep relaxation, while the mind remains quietly aware. There is nothing to do, achieve, or figure out. You simply lie still, listen, and allow yourself to rest.

As someone who has struggled with sustained sleep in recent years, practicing it for just a few minutes can make the difference between dragging myself through the day and feeling clear and energetic. I was thrilled that we practiced it every day at the retreat.

And somewhere along the way, I noticed that I was not even thinking about the hot, windowless room. I was less consumed by my job prospects back home. In fact, I was less focused on everything that wasn’t the way I wanted it to be. I was just there, in the heat, becoming more present to the people and surroundings.

On the second or third day, I joined the land manager for a tour of the property. At home, you would rarely catch me walking in 90-plus-degree temps in the middle of the afternoon unless I had to. But there I was, walking, and dare I say, making small talk.

He showed me an acequia, a kind of neighborhood water highway used in the Southwest that uses the natural slope of the land to allow gravity to pull river water down to local farms and gardens. We also walked past a beaver dam and enjoyed a spectacular view of the Pedernal.

Then we passed a small house on the hill where another guest was staying. And just like that, she was back, my controlling self. The house had floor-to-ceiling windows, a deck, a living room, a kitchen, and perhaps most painfully, its own coffee maker. I was immediately envious. Had I still been earning my previous corporate salary, I would have reserved that house.

Suddenly, my little hot room felt like a downgrade all over again.

Then, that night at dinner, I overheard someone say, It ran up my arm, and I screamed and threw it off. We couldn’t find it, so we finally just went back to sleep.

My head spun around so I could better hear what was being discussed.

I felt my body go cold.

I knew that story could only be about one thing.

A mouse!

Years ago, I lived next to a construction site in a New York City apartment that became infested with mice. I felt trapped and constantly on guard in my own home, and the anxiety from that experience has never completely left me.

I am not afraid of much. I am, however, terrified of mice. And now there was apparently one somewhere in the house where I was already not sleeping.

I said a prayer of exasperation. God, I’m really trying to go with the flow here. I’m trying not to seek to control everything. But a mouse in the house, seriously? What are we doing?

That night, I turned on every light in my room and left them blazing until morning. I had convinced myself that rodents preferred darkness, and I wasn’t taking any chances. So now my room was not only hot AF and windowless. I was sleeping with the lights on, too.

Not Rested But Alive

Typically, I return from retreats blissfully relaxed and feeling Zen. I sleep well, eat well, get my yoga on, and come home restored.

This retreat was different.

Was I rested? I was not.

However, I was feeling strangely alive, energized, and restored from the inside.

So much had already happened, with more to happen during that week. I could probably write an entire book about it.

A hummingbird became trapped in the barn and was near death before a few of us nursed it back to life. You may already know about my special love for hummingbirds. I will write more on that later!

The woman staying in the beautiful house on the hill decided to leave early and offered it to me. Another retreat participant, with whom I later discovered I share a birthday, and I happily abandoned our hot, cramped barn accommodations and moved in. For the rest of the week, we enjoyed magnificent sunsets, great conversations over peanut butter pretzels, much better sleep, and as much coffee as we wanted.

Then one of the women unfortunately became ill from the heat. She needed to get down the mountain to an air-conditioned inn.

At night. In the pitch-black dark.

If you remember my discomfort coming up that mountain in plenty of daylight, you can imagine how I felt about driving back down it in complete darkness, without a streetlight in sight. None.

Thankfully, another participant, whom I described throughout the retreat as a total “baller,” a badass, said she felt comfortable navigating those dark roads in her Jeep and volunteered to drive. She and I had forged a very nice connection, and I was moved by her selfless willingness to volunteer to be the driver. I really wanted to go to bed, but I couldn’t let her go alone. So I volunteered to go with her.

My comfort zone was now somewhere near Greenland.

We survived the trip down and back, had several good laughs, and got another view of the spectacular stars at the end of our ride.

The rest of the trip continued to be amazing, expanding, and unexpected.

One morning, I skipped the tea ceremony to meditate alone on the deck, only to have a mouse run directly across my path. There is clearly more for me to investigate about my relationship with rodents. But we don’t have time for that right now.

I also had soul-baring conversations with retreat mates that left us in tears of relief over painful experiences each of us had believed were ours to carry alone. I saw sunsets so brilliant they are burned into my memory. One night we danced under the stars, and the last night we practiced Yoga Nidra in the open air under the most star- filled night of the trip.

Once the retreat ended, for a few more days before heading home, I wandered the streets of Santa Fe, visited the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum, ate a lot of tacos, and spent time with my newly discovered cousins, who welcomed me with a level of care, attention, and love I will never forget.

This trip changed the way I think about control and what it takes for me to feel safe. So much happened. And mostly I chose to surrender to what was in front of me. Not because what was happening didn’t matter, but because sometimes something else matters more than my comfort, my expectations, or my plan.

Years ago, I was complaining to a friend about something that hadn’t gone the way I wanted. He listened and then said, You know, on your gravestone it’s going to say, Here lies Kellie. She had plans. We laughed about it then. But all these years later, I realize there was more truth in that joke than I understood.

Planning is important. It’s how we get things done. But I wonder how much magic I may have missed because I had plans? Because I needed to know what was coming next? Because I needed to be comfortable or feel in control?

The fireflies on a Baltimore stoop.

A night sky in New Mexico so filled with stars that I was brought to tears by the sheer beauty of it.

A lovely dinner I almost didn’t go to.

Connecting with family that I didn’t know I missed.

A dark mountain road I would never have chosen but that forged a new friendship.

A group of strangers who became new friends.

Maybe the moments that matter most aren’t particularly comfortable or predictable. Maybe feeling safe doesn’t require knowing exactly what will happen next. Maybe peace isn’t about having everything go according to plan.

I’ve been through many big challenges in my life. Hell, I went through a lot on this trip. And it all turned out more than okay. In fact, in most ways, it turned out to be full of joy, laughter, good food, hugs, new sites, connection, and moments I never could have planned or anticipated.

So maybe peace is more about trusting myself enough to meet whatever comes with grace and curiosity, even or especially when the original plan is not working.

I came home feeling rested and invigorated in a new way, and so full of love and gratitude for every one of those ten unexpected days and for every person I connected with along the way.

And for a change... I’m honestly glad that absolutely nothing went like I thought it should. It was in the unexpected where I found enough magic to last a lifetime.

_________________

Quiet Reflections

Take a few quiet minutes with your journal and consider:

1. Where in your life are you trying to control an outcome because not knowing what will happen makes you feel uncomfortable or unsafe? What might it feel like to loosen your grip, even a little?

2. Think about a time when something did not go according to plan, but turned out better, more meaningful, or simply different than you expected. What did that experience teach you about your ability to handle the unexpected?

3. What might you be missing because you already have a plan for how something is supposed to look or feel? Where could you leave a little more room for surprise, connection, or magic?

At Kellie Box Company, we believe peace is a practice and begins with each of us. Sometimes, letting go of what we think should be is the best way to see and experience what is actually there. Whether it’s a journal for capturing your quiet thoughts, a beautiful mug and a few minutes to yourself to sip one of our comforting teas, or our signature Quiet Time Box, our thoughtfully curated items are created to support rituals of quiet and care for yourself or someone you care for. Visit our store here and enjoy 25% off everything during our summer sale through September 21. Use code: Summer26.