“I can’t breathe!” I shriek, tears streaming down my face.

It’s been over 12 hours since I started my journey to Costa Rica and I have yet to reach my destination.

I take another gasp of air and try to compose myself. I’m wedged between two strangers in the back of a white pickup truck, ass mid-air as we bounce our way further into the jungle.

Despite the absurdity, I can’t stop laughing; or maybe it’s because of the absurdity that I can’t contain myself. Every time I catch my breath, we hit another bump and I burst into a fit of giggles.

In the words of our guide Jorge, we were at the beginning of the start. (An absolute shock to hear after two flights and a five-hour van ride.)

But he was right: we’d only just begun our descent into the rainforest.

I’ve taken many modes of transportation in my life, but a metal cage hung by zip line hadn’t been one of them until now.

I grip onto the metal bars of our cage as we’re pushed into darkness, flying across the raging river. I can’t tell where my laugh ends and my scream begins.

As we continue our journey by foot for what feels like hours, I couldn’t help but wonder if we were all going to die…

(If I hadn’t gotten those pre-trip iron infusions, I’d have been face-first drifting down the Pacuare River, never to be seen again.)

Every time we overcome a particularly wild patch of our intense walkabout, I think the worst is over. But it just keeps going.

I don’t dare ask Jorge how much longer we have til we reach the lodge. My legs are quivering, I’m breathing like I’m going into labor, and if I hear anything other than “we’re here,” I may actually start crying. We’re on jungle time now.

This isn’t funny anymore.

My face gets hot as my internal monologue goes from this is crazy (complementary) to this is insane (derogatory).

The pain in my knees starts to get more pronounced with every wet step I take.

I don’t know how much longer I can do this.

I’m not sure who this Lois Mac woman thinks she is, but I would not describe this hike as “10 to 15 minutes” or “super chill.”

My water shoes hit pavement. A sidewalk! This is a good sign. I release some of the tension in my jaw as we walk down the lighted pathway towards what I hope is the dining hall.

Lois greets us with a hug and an apology… in her years of hosting Writing Wildly, no group has ever had an entrance quite so wild.

“It was the beginning of the start!” we joke, and I slowly return to a state of this is crazy (complimentary).

Fortunately for everyone, the wilder-than-anticipated journey was well worth what came after.

I went on this retreat to finish writing my Nervous Systems group program, a feat that has felt like a series of misadventures: stops and starts, ebbs and flows, a metaphorical cage ride across the river, followed by an endless hike through the wilderness.

I am not usually one to sit on an offer for this long. I’ve crossed the 12-month threshold since the idea first came to me, but I still feel like I’m at the beginning of the start. An absolute nightmare for an inpatient and impulsive bitch like myself.

But the body of work I started developing in Costa Rica is so much bigger than just a group program. It’s a methodology that will likely shape everything I create for years to come, including Nervous Systems.

That means we will not be launching this fall after all.

For my own sanity, I’ve decided not to ask the universe how much longer til we get to our destination; but I promise to let you all know when we’ve arrived.

I think the journey will be worth it.

As a special treat for your patience, please enjoy this photo of me rafting through a cat 4 rapid:

Wildly,

Andrea