Lay down your lies while you walk

A list of things I want to leave behind

Mar 02, 2025

Last week, with spring so near I could taste the crocuses, I drove 80 miles to celebrate my dog’s birthday.

Me, Flynn and my other dog, Suki, found ourselves entirely alone in a California Wilderness Preserve. As we explored the trails, I felt hopeful and happy and so very grateful I could burst.

In the silence, my heart seemed to beat a question:

How long will you hold onto the stories that do not serve you?

I’ve always excelled at hoarding intangible things—memories, hurts, masochistic coping mechanisms. I can hardly be angry about it. My hoarding skill extends its spindly reach to things of beauty, too.

A memory of my Mum’s friend—long gone to cancer—as I proudly presented my discovery of a tiny crimson flower. Scarlet Pimpernell, she said, and now whenever I see the star-shaped pinpricks of red, I can’t help but think of her.

My late friend Emily and I in the woods behind our houses, hunting for frogspawn in the stream, and years later, sneaking cigarettes under the camouflage of oak trees.

Learning from my Dad the dance of good joke-telling. What will delight or surprise another human? What words, said in what tone, told in what order will tickle their very heart?

But there are other things I’ve hoarded—no-good, twisted beliefs—and alone in the woods, I wanted to lay down my lies in the dirt.

Sadly, these things are never so simple. We all walk a winding path, and progress is a two steps forward, one step back situation. I pray—or at least I would if I were so inclined—to walk life’s journey for a hundred miles more. And at each bend, I aspire to leave behind old, rusted parts of my soul.

I will lay down my impossible pursuit for a “perfect’ body because I’m proud of what the one I have has endured. The chemotherapy, the many surgeries, and yes, even the countless anguished self-administered cuts—now scars which seem as much a part of me as my elbows.

I will lay down the idea that to heal from grief is a betrayal because being stuck in pain seems worse. My memories of Emily—and the other friends I’ve lost to cancer—are woven into me. Letting go of my grief doesn’t mean letting go of love.

I will lay down my belief that my life is less worthy than Emily’s because my hallowed guilt was never more than a crutch. And the more I live in this world, the more I sit with death and loss, the more I understand my death would never have solved anything at all.

And I will lay down the desperate need to have all the answers. Instead, I’ll collect questions, picking them up like shells on a beach, turning them over in my mind.

What comes next? Who am I now? Will the cancer always be in remission?

And beyond that, life’s bigger questions: Am I on the right path? How long is my walk? What awaits me at the end?

Now, though, I wonder if being alive means making peace with the unknown. And sure, that’s scary, but it’s also a sort of miracle.

While I lay down these tired stories—these sad little poisonous lies—perhaps I’ll pick up some new things to nurture in my very own vegetable garden.

Summertime road trips with my love.

Stolen sunny hikes in the woods with my dogs.

Writing words that make people smile.

Writing words that make people feel less alone.

A new, fragile seedling of a book.

The confidence to be who I am.

The confidence to say no.

The confidence to say yes.