The Practice of Not Getting Ahead of Yourself

I was sitting in the window seat, facing the Atlantic.

To my right, just beyond the yellow wingtip, red-speckled roofs adorned the mountainside.

Over the loudspeaker, I heard: “If you’re wearing high heels, please take them off.”

I chuckled and looked down at my black sneakers—the ones I’d thrown on minutes before leaving the house—grateful I wasn’t trying to look like anything but the tourist I was.

A few weeks earlier, I had dislocated my second-to-the-end right toe. My first thought wasn’t the pain. It was: What if this ruins our trip to Madeira?

I did the unthinkable and pulled the severely crooked appendage out of the socket and popped it back into place.

Two weeks before that, I had rolled my ankle on a plane coming back from seeing my mom. Stood up too fast, my legs were still asleep. Crack, crack, crack. Fell straight onto the guy next to me.

He was so engrossed in his phone, our eyes never met. The reality that our phones can keep us from seeing each other hurt as much as anything else.

But here I was, sitting in 15C, tuning out the Portuguese and Spanish welcome instructions, engrossed in my book.

I was straddling thoughts about how grateful I was that my feet had healed enough to make the trip with my husband and oldest son.

And how much I loved Theo—the Portuguese man in the novel I was reading—plus how much I appreciated Marcos, our Portuguese mountain biking guide from the day before.

“Where did you grow up?” I had asked Marcos in the first few minutes of riding.

“Here,” he said. “On this bike and on this mountain.”

I appreciated the depth of his answer but felt a flicker of unease. I hadn’t realized the e-bike tour we’d signed up for was…mountain biking.

He must have sensed my apprehension.

“Don’t think about the downhill,” he said.
“You’re thinking too far ahead. Just focus on what’s in front of you.”

Three hours later, after gushing waterfalls, winding levadas, and snapping a few pics along the way, we began to descend.

We hit a narrow path, and I felt my shoulders tense, my hands clamp down on the brakes. I quickly jumped off the bike. Then it dawned on me: the bike was still in Turbo mode. I turned off the power and got back in the saddle.

At the next steep stretch, my old friend—shame—jumped in, right on cue.

You’re going to hurt yourself.

Marcos the guide was 50 yards ahead, but somehow it felt like he could hear the conversation in my head. He turned around and called out:

“Don’t stop!” So I didn’t.

And when we made it safely to the water’s edge—high fives all around. So fun.

The truth is, my trip to Madeira with Duncan and Charlie had many highlights, this moment being one of them. Most of the others had to do with laughing so hard (usually at Duncan's hilarity) that Charlie snorted, countless times. So good.

But by the time we landed in Madrid to see the life he’s built there over the past two years, I sensed it was time for Duncan and me to return to our lives, and for him to continue building his.

Walking through the park, I asked Charlie what I thought was a simple question about living at home next year. And just like that, I realized I’d stepped on a land mine.

I’ll never forget the moment my mom innocently asked me, in my 20’s, “Do you go to church?” Land mine. And yet, I summoned the courage to tell her the hard truth.

Charlie spoke his truth, too. Hearing his answer wasn’t hard. I appreciated his honesty.

What was hard was what rose up in me—a clenched chest, pursed lips, and, since I’m letting you in, a profound loss of control. I didn’t know exactly what to say as I realized, once again: this is not my life, nor mine to figure out. Not that he was asking us to, quite the contrary.

Later that night, Duncan and I took him and his roommates out to dinner. I sat there watching, listening, absorbing.

And I could see it all so clearly: Charlie creates meaningful relationships wherever he goes. He'll figure it out. In fact, maybe he already has.

All I have to do is not get ahead of myself—and to focus on what's right in front of me.

Which, these days, thankfully includes neither steep descents nor high heels, but plenty to see, learn, and do.