I’ve always been drawn to nature, but for most of my life I was only an observer, never truly part of it.

As a sheltered Gen X child, my world was small. My father was overprotective and my mother didn’t want me going anywhere. My outdoor adventures were limited to our backyard with its steep hill and little copse of trees. That became my private world of imagination. Occasional picnics at the local park felt like a big treat.

When I turned 18 and finally left home, everything changed. I fell in love with the outdoors. My ex and I went camping, day hiking, and swimming at the base of waterfalls. We climbed Appalachian mountaintops to watch the sunset. I couldn’t get enough.

Then life got heavy. Work, bills, and exhaustion slowly pulled me away. Years passed before I realized how much I missed it.

About four years ago I started leaving for work early just so I could sit under a moss-covered tree I named Treebeard. I’d play music for it, say what I was grateful for, and breathe. That small habit reminded me how much I missed being in nature.

So I made myself a simple promise: every weekend I would visit at least one new park, community park, or greenway. It quickly became my ritual.

One especially hard day, I was carrying so much stress that my neck and shoulders felt locked in stone. I was on the verge of a meltdown. Instead of staying home, I grabbed lemongrass incense and drove to a nearby community park. It was loud and crowded — soccer games, family reunions, music blaring. But something told me to stay.

I found a circle of large rocks off the main path. I climbed onto the biggest one, sat cross-legged, and struggled to push the incense sticks into the hard ground. They kept snapping, but I finally got them lit. With Tibetan singing bowls playing in my ears, I closed my eyes, rolled my shoulders, stretched my neck, and breathed.

This is what the Japanese call “forest bathing” — a proven way to lower stress and calm the nervous system. Twenty minutes later, the tension began to leave my body. I took out my earbuds and simply listened to the trees sighing and the frogs singing. For the first time in days, I felt grounded.

These weekend visits have become more than walks. They are my reset button. As a single, 58-year-old asexual woman living paycheck to paycheck, life throws constant curveballs. The parks let me shed some of that weight. I touch bark, smell the earth, watch turtles and salamanders, and let my childhood sense of wonder wake up again.

I talk to trees. I greet the land and the local spirits. Some people might think it’s silly. I don’t care. This is how I remember how to breathe.

I still get exhausted. Some weekends I’m sore the next day. But I keep going — one park at a time — slowly coming back to a part of myself I thought I had lost.

Less than 18 months ago, I was diagnosed as gray-asexual. I felt disappointed, confused, and afraid. Today, I’m slowly learning to embrace who I am — and it’s still a challenge.

Let’s back up. I’m a 58-year-old woman who spent decades in a long-term relationship with a man who eventually distanced himself. I’d had shorter relationships before him, but he was my longest. I’ve been single for the past 13 years. There were plenty of online flirtations that never went anywhere. Deep down, I knew something was wrong with me. I just couldn’t figure out what kept me from being the affectionate, desiring woman I thought I was supposed to be.

I tried everything: the “blue pill” for women, ecstasy, alcohol, energy supplements, vitamins, porn, Kegels, anti-anxiety meds, antidepressants, even kink and domination on both sides. Nothing ignited that missing spark. I wondered if I was a lesbian, but I felt no physical attraction to women either. A full physical exam showed nothing wrong with me. I was healthy, just overweight. I joined a gym, lost weight, felt endorphins surge… and still nothing. No desire. No lustful pull when Brad Pitt or the latest ingenue filled the screen.

My relationship ended for many reasons, not just my lack of desire. We tried couples therapy, and I did solo sessions too. The therapist wasn’t especially interested in my sexual disconnect but agreed the relationship was likely doomed.

Once it was over, I realized I no longer had ties keeping me in Maryland. I packed up, moved to North Carolina to be near family, started a new career, and lived in my sister’s spare room for two years before moving in with my niece. In the 13 years since, I haven’t once craved sex. No fantasies of hiring a companion in Nevada. No lingering stares at shirtless men mowing lawns. After a full decade of this absence, I made one last effort to understand what was happening to me.

My previous psychiatrist had never asked probing questions; our sessions were mostly me free-associating, and he labeled me an “overthinker.” A year ago, with better health insurance, I started seeing someone new. After three months, he confidently diagnosed me as asexual — specifically gray-asexual. I was stunned. It had never occurred to me that I might simply be this way. I’d assumed it was physical, or hidden trauma (I was never sexually violated).

The confusion hit harder next. How could I be asexual when I love hugs, cuddling, and kissing? When I still feel capable of romantic love? When I first meet someone romantically, that intense sexual desire does flood in — consuming, crazy, wonderful. But after a few months, it fades to almost nothing. Sex leaves me feeling hollow; five minutes later, the euphoria evaporates. I would oblige my ex, but I always felt like I was prostituting myself. Afterward, I felt awful. The love and affection remained — but the desire died.

My doctor explained that sexuality exists on a spectrum, and so does asexuality. Some people experience no sexual attraction at all. Others only feel it after deep emotional connection. Some are aromantic with healthy libidos but no interest in romance. I fall into the gray area: I rarely experience sexual attraction beyond that initial intense phase. Masturbation proved my libido wasn’t the issue. He assured me I was normal. I didn’t believe him at first — I didn’t feel normal.

People often tell asexual folks they just haven’t met “the right person.” That misses the point entirely. It’s not about how much you love someone or how much you enjoy their touch. It’s about the consistent absence (or near-absence) of sexual attraction.

At 56, almost 57, I was hit with this diagnosis and had to figure out how to live with it. I was terrified of being alone forever. Who would want a companion like me? I’ve come to terms with a lot since then. I’m not “just” asexual. I’m pagan. I’m not conventionally attractive or wealthy. But I’m a loyal friend, a devoted aunt, and a capable woman. I’ve started lurking on AVEN (the Asexuality Visibility and Education Network) and plan to join AceSpace soon. I’ve accepted that a romantic partner may not be part of my future. It’s still scary — but for the first time, I feel ready to step into this next chapter, one day at a time.

One step at a time, I’m choosing to live as myself instead of who I thought I should be. And that, strangely, feels like the most intimate thing I’ve ever done.

Let’s start with my first year. I remember it so vividly. My partner and I were enjoying our beautiful spring shift. Our workplace is quite beautiful — award‑winning landscaping, ponds with koi, everything in bloom.

I had just left an emergency call with Dr. S. He’d had one too many dry martinis during his Friday afternoon bridge game and commenced to fall down in his garage, tearing skin and denting the hood of his BMW with his head. Mind you, he is 6'4" and I’m only 5'6" and female. As you can imagine, the nurse and I had major difficulties helping him up, and he wasn’t exactly cooperating. In hindsight, I’m quite sure he called us hoodlums for denting his car. Since he’d struck his head, we alerted 911 and waited until they responded and took him away.

Immediately after, I received a call from one of our bus drivers stating he needed us to write a report on some property damage caused by an Amazon van. As I went to investigate, he called again to say he was “seeing things” and needed help. My thoughts were swirling around what exactly I was supposed to do for someone who was hallucinating.

As I cautiously approached him, he said he was waiting for Mr. B to get on the bus; however, Mr. B was there but suddenly he was not. He called out for him and even got off the bus, but couldn’t find him anywhere.

Now, I admit that Mr. B makes me a tad nervous. Every evening when I patrol the hallways and reach his unit, he quickly opens his door, stumbles out, and asks me if I want to pet his cat. No sir, I do not want to “pet your cat.” I was irritated that I needed to find him and assured the driver he was probably not “seeing things”; rather, Mr. B was probably not interested in taking the bus. The driver insisted he’d seen Mr. B approaching the bus and waving him down as he got out of his seat to assist another lady.

So, I proceeded into the parking lot to locate said Mr. B and found him face‑planted between two cars, his glasses covered in blood from his face. As I approached, I could smell the brewery in his body manufacturing what I assumed to be the finest whiskey ever known to the four corners of the community. I called the nurse, who came out and bandaged him up.

I then escorted him home in my golf cart. He asked if I wanted to come in and “pet his cat.” I declined. Firmly. I reminded him he needed to change clothes for the Good Friday event in the Clubhouse. He nodded, his eyes glazing over like two donuts when he realized he could get two free mint juleps during the festivities. Why the administrators think it’s a good idea to offer free alcohol is beyond comprehension and my control.

After escorting Mr. B back to his front door, I returned to the gatehouse to write reports on both events.

Reader, I kid you not — ten minutes after I sat down, we received a visit from Mrs. D. She is a lovely Southern belle from the great state of Georgia. Her wig was an immaculate dark‑blonde number, perfectly paired with a light‑green Hermès knit suit and Chanel ballet flats. My partner and I are fond of Mrs. D and were very happy to see her.

My coworker was handling a phone call from Mrs. B, who was sobbing uncontrollably over the speaker because we refused her chocolates (she had just given us a barrel of it that morning). So I smiled, told Mrs. D she was a pretty picture as always, and offered my help.

Mrs. D looked me dead in the eye and said, “I’m about to lose mah lunnnccchhhhh. Whyyyy? Whyyyy are you ALLOWING Mr. B to run around this campus nekkid as the day our Lord allowed him to be birthed? Honestly, are we running a nude farm here? Where are the CHIPPENDALES?!”

I took a deep breath and assured her the community had not turned into a nudist colony and that I would take care of Mr. B. I immediately contacted the nurse, thinking perhaps he’d had a bit of head trauma from his fall and needed additional follow‑up. Mrs. D was reminded of the free mint juleps and immediately scurried off to get one before “Ms. C decided to put extras in her bag!”

The nurse and I scoured the campus (44 acres) for Mr. B before we finally found him attempting to walk his cat around the pond. Mr. Tiddles was in no mood to be walked and was calmly being dragged along the grass. We quickly covered Mr. B with towels and brought him to the nursing home on campus.

I went to his condo and grabbed some clothes, putting out food and water for Mr. Tiddles and making sure he was fine after his ordeal. Upon return, Mr. B had decided he would no longer respond to our questions and wanted to watch TV. We contacted 911, and they came to take him in for a head scan. We let them dress Mr. B.

At that point, the driver called me and said the Amazon driver had gone down into the underground parking garage and done additional damage to the roof. The van was too high and set off the sprinklers.

SHIT. I totally forgot about them.

Off I go — and the Fire Department arrives on campus, sirens screaming, because the sprinkler system alerted our alarm company, who called 911. The underground lot is flashing red lights and spewing water all over vehicles, including Dr. C’s 1967 convertible Ford Mustang.

Of course the top was down, reader. Why wouldn’t it be?!?

Of course he was not at home; he was at church with his wife in her car. No, reader, I was not familiar with the mechanics of pulling the top up, but my partner was, so we swapped places. Yes, the car (baby blue with whitewalls) did get wet on the inside; fortunately, Dr. C didn’t seem worried at all.

At this point, it is evening, the sun has gone down, and members are partying their asses off because it’s Friday, “Good” be damned. We call our Maintenance Supervisor, and she has to arrive to turn off the sprinkler system and give out codes that the Security team apparently isn’t allowed to know.

M’kay. It’s all good.

This is the end of Year One, friend. I will submit more true stories in the future.