Begin again.

Dispatches from the messy middle.

I love an unlikely success story. Really, I do.

And over the years, I’ve experienced my own little versions of success, branching off from seemingly the most insurmountable failures.

Surprise divorce after a decade of commitment? Fine, I’ll sell the marital home at a profit and use those savings to quit my job and complete a thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail.

Single again? Okay, I’ll move to the town I’ve always dreamed of living in, reconnect with a very handsome thru-hiker, and then we’ll open a thru-hiker hostel together. We’ll even get married; because why not also have a fairytale ending?

I’ve prided myself on turning big losses into unexpected wins. I’m still of the opinion that usually, “failure” is instead a course correction. But lately, it’s been hard to remember that truth.

I set out on a thru-hike of the Pacific Crest Trail last summer, only to return home after one month and 550 miles (out of 2,650) when my husband lost his job. Meanwhile, a couple friends of ours approached us and asked if we wanted to sell the hostel to them. I didn’t want to sell, but we did.

Hostel-less, I’ve learned firsthand how tough the job market is right now, especially for someone who has been self-employed for the last couple years. Fine, I thought. Course correction. I hated the marketing world anyway. I’ll go to grad school and become a therapist. I’ve always wanted to go down that career path: I even took a few online prerequisites before thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail so I could begin applying as soon as I got my feet back under me.

Success story, loading.

Then, a couple weeks ago, I stared at the student portal for my top-pick graduate school. Next to my application, in clear, bold letters, I realized that I wasn’t writing a success story this time. It wasn’t even a story. It was a word. Just one.

Deny.

This is not the course correction I ordered.

A few short days before I found myself staring at that word, I’d clipped tags off of the first pair of slacks I’d worn in over six years, buttoned up a collared shirt, slipped on a smart-yet-sensible pair of heels, and interviewed my little heart out for that program. The cohort I’d applied to accepts 30 applicants. Over 130 applied, we were told. Congratulations, the interviewers added: only 60 were invited to the interview, and you’re one of those qualified few.

My odds weren’t shoe-in odds, but it was a good sign that I’d made the interview, I reasoned. I usually interviewed well. I used to be a wallflower in group settings, but after all those previous big life losses, followed by big course corrections, and entering into my 30’s, I was confident I would: 1. Do my best 2. My best would probably be enough.

Deny.

I sat back in my chair and spiraled.

My best was not enough. Did my confidence come off as arrogance? Was it because I mispronounced another interviewee’s name after the group activity? I corrected myself, but maybe that was the reason. Deny. One of the questions they asked us was about the hardest time in our lives—was it too personal to share about my divorce and how it led me to my own experience in therapy as a client? Deny. I wonder if the man who shared about his divorce got in? Does this mean they don’t think I’d be a good therapist? Deny. Could I apply next year? Deny. Did they read something on my social media or website that made them reject my application? Should I have turned my profiles private? Deny. But is it right to stifle the only other thing I’m good at, my writing, for this? Deny. That feels disingenuous. Deny. I shouldn’t have to censor myself. Deny.

It’s times like this where I desperately miss trail life. You have two choices: north or south. Only one way to get there, and all the headspace you need to do it.

The loss of the PCT, the loss of my home and business, and now, a panel of decorated professionals in the career path I was hoping to join had just told me that this, one of my longest-running dreams… was not for me. Not with them. Didn’t make the cut.

Life is designed for you to f*ck it up. Right?

Weeks before that rejection, while I was still riding the high of being invited to the interview—the interview; I’ve made it!—I was pumping gas. I was trying to intercept my husband on his way to visit one of his friends, so I uncharacteristically left the nozzle in the tank and stepped away to buy him an energy drink. Then I returned to my car, hopped in, started it, and pulled away.

PSHHH-THUMP.

Startled by the sound, I stomped the brake pedal and threw my car into park. Did I hit something? I stepped out, rounded my car, and there it was: the nozzle still in the tank, a splatter of gasoline on the ground, the decapitated hose dangling right in the center of the puddle. I’d driven off with the gas nozzle still in my tank. I’d driven off while it was still pumping gas.

“Oh my god,” I murmured, hushed in disbelief. I locked eyes with a man standing on the other side of the gas pump, who was staring at me with eyes as wide as saucers, his own gas pump—still whole, unlike mine—dispensing fuel into his little Civic.

“Oh my god,” I repeated, addressing saucer-eyes directly as we beheld each other with an equal mix of horror and disbelief. “That was possibly the most fucking stupid thing I’ve ever done.”

Saucer-eyes nodded mutely. I spun on my heel and jogged to the station attendant’s booth, finding it empty. There was a call button, but when I pressed it, it didn’t respond: jammed somehow in a perpetually “on” position. Still, I pressed it again, more times than I care to admit, until the attendant swaggered back to his chair. He set down his Dr. Pepper and popped open the drawer to receive whatever snacks he thought I was purchasing.

“Um,” I said. “I just did something really stupid.”

“I do stupid things all day long,” he answered breezily. “Whatcha got?”

“Probably not this stupid,” I replied. “Um… the hose…” I couldn’t explain it, waving my hands as if to pantomime it to him. He laughed and closed the drawer, understanding.

“Got it, someone did the same exact thing yesterday. Be out in a sec.” Then he disappeared. I stood in front of the booth for a few seconds, not understanding his casual tone. Someone else did this? This happens often enough for him to understand my nervous pantomiming?

That was the day that I learned gas station hoses are designed to pop loose if one tries to drive away with it.

Let me repeat that: they are designed to break, and then be popped back together. When I expressed my surprise at this to the gas station attendant, as he wrestled one end of the hose up to the other half, while I held it in place for him to reattach them, he laughed.

And as he laughed, I was relieved.

This is why I write.

Too often, I write (and read) the success story, the course correction, the “look-at-the-odds-I-overcame.”

It’s easy to understand why. Watching someone else accomplish a dream you yourself might hold dear is deeply gratifying. How many times did I google, How long does it take to get over divorce when I was painfully alone in my separation? How many YouTube documentaries did I watch of other people completing the Appalachian Trail in the days, weeks, months, and years before I set out to walk the first mile?

The problem is that all your personal growth happens in the messy middle. Between those first few nights alone after my separation, when I alternated between sobbing and lying sleepless, staring at the ceiling, and summiting Mt. Katahdin at the end of the Appalachian Trail: there were years of trial and error.

First backpacking trip ever, circa 2019… So much to unpack here. Literally and figuratively. The cotton everything. The very sturdy boots for a 100+ degree trek through a Louisiana swamp. The ill-fitting pack. In a word, messy.

While we’re talking gas pump mishaps: there was the first time I filled my car by myself, after having a spouse that made sure to do it for me for our years together. (The pump didn’t automatically click off and I was sprayed with gasoline.)

There was also the first solo backpacking trip, where I was terrified, shaking like a leaf as I set out to hike just ten miles of flat trail as an overnight.

On my thru-hike, there were countless misadventures: a very angry IT band that made me complete the Georgia section as a snail’s pace, falling flat on my face as I ran from a yellow jacket, DEET exploding in my pack, melting all things plastic, rage-buying a hammock when my tent started leaking with only three state lines to go…

I’ve shared some of these misadventures along the way, but lately, I haven’t written anything. When I get into grad school, I told myself, staring at the blinking cursor. I’d thought I was spinning a good story about losing my thru-hike, losing my home, losing the dream of running a hostel, then embarking on a new career path despite all that messy failure.

I think there’s a better, more honest story to be found among all the disappointment and trial and error. This is the part of course correction where you find yourself bushwhacking to a new path. It’s not pretty and the way forward is uncertain, but it’s the very thing that leads you to the path you’re meant for.

I think it’s also a relief to be witnessed in your messy middle. Because, inevitably, you’ll hear that others are going through the same thing. Every single time I’ve written about the many glaring imperfections of my life, I’ve received emails and DM’s from people who thought they were the only ones.

Let’s begin again.

I know that I’m not alone in this.

If you have a story you’d like to share about your own life—especially if you’re still amongst all the mess and uncertainty, shoot me an email to contact@maryleavines.com. We’ll make space to talk about it here, together.

Thanks for reading,

-M