Not that long ago, I never would have described myself as an anxious person, but more recently, I’ve had to come to grips with what keeps me up at night, with what often prevents me from getting up, going out, or calling people back. I’ve been trying to clandestinely confront and shine a little light on my demons in hopes that through understanding they’ll have less power over me.

Today, a friend shared this video depicting what it’s like to live with high-functioning anxiety.

Its viral views demonstrate how universal these experiences are becoming. I’m even anxious right now about what you will or, gasp… won’t say at all in response to this! It hits home incredibly hard, and I need to be open about why.

First off…

Before I speak my personal truth, know that it is just that: personal. I am not attempting to diminish chemical imbalances, genes, history, or the challenges they present, which are very real and play starring roles in the mental health struggles of many. Nor am I trying to diagnose or refute any specific condition or those finding relief in substances; prescribed, over the counter, or over the coffee table. I’m merely offering that…

This turmoil is, at least in part, symptomatic of an era.

Of course we feel like inadequate failures

when we’re constantly bombarded by curated galleries of others’ perfect sun-drenched lives, and of course we feel like frauds when we meticulously censor and broadcast our own.

Of course we are plagued by self-doubt

when malicious, cowardly people hide behind laptops to bully or diminish our dreams with hateful slurs they’d never utter in person. Of course we feel like bad partners or parents or daughters when staring down images of faraway beach proposals, a jewelry-maker-web-designer supermom effortlessly raising six kids, the surprise 60th birthday celebration our friend threw for their mom.

Of course we feel like hypocrites

when we want to “be the change” but are barraged with epiphanies that our TOMS shoes may undercut local shoemakers, that even the farmers who grew our fair trade coffee face injustices, and that our foreign aid and two-week “voluntourism” trips might do more harm than good.

Of course we feel like we’re not on the right path

because now we’re aware of billions of others. Why didn’t I think of becoming a professional mermaid, dammit? Why wasn’t I building tiny homes for the homeless when I was only nine?

The paradox of choice is nothing new, yet the scale at which is it’s manifesting today certainly is. It’s easy to imagine that it was simpler to “want not” when confronted with fewer options. Today, our choices seem endless. How could we not, at least some of the time, want what we don’t have when we are well-versed in the haves of millions?

Couple this with general over-stimulation and rampant (mis)information / opinion masquerading as fact, and you’ve got a recipe for the most anxious generation in history.

Supposedly reputable media is hooked on celebrity cellulite, and you know those in-pocket journalists aren’t going to cover actual news, so you go online to learn about what’s happening in Syria and instead find he-said she-said link backs to Ellen’s open letter to Obama’s open letter to the pope. You could probably Google “Is the Earth round?” and find “Breaking: New Evidence Disputes Roundness of Earth” and “Is the Earth really round or is it an optical illusion?” I’ll leave that one up to you.

Take the pre-ubiquitous-WWW nutrition roller coaster of the 80s that has only escalated. Fat was bad, then the synthetic alternatives of fat-free foods gave everyone anal discharge and ‘good’ fats were OK, then carbs became the enemy, then meat, dairy, and gluten are the devil and Mediterranean high-fat diets are the secret to longevity. Bodily intuition and ancestral wisdom is forgotten or ridiculed as we cling to a shred of data from the latest Monsanto-backed study.

Today, this incessant war has been multiplied by billions of forums and tweets and infects not just what choose to put in our mouths, but (noticed or unnoticed) also our careers, our relationships, our causes, nearly every facet of our lives.

Marketers vie for a dwindling attention span (which is now supposedly shorter than that of a goldfish) with mile-a-minute YouTube salesmen, but car companies tell us that’s no problem because they’ve invented a new system that “brakes if you don’t.”

The little voices in our heads won’t shut the fuck up because neither will our phones, tablets, or smart TVs.

Even if we’ve managed to avoid getting sucked into the social media void, the high energy of relentless stimulation is contagious. We also have no idea if in 30 years we’ll learn that WiFi and cell phone signals are indeed harmful, so perhaps it won’t matter if you never got online a day in your life; you couldn’t avoid the omnipresent waves anyway. Sure, go ahead and file that under misinformation, but just you wait…

Cure Me!

You’re probably wondering if I’m ever going to stop ranting and present the long-awaited unsubstantiated magic bullet or at least a list of “Hey, if it worked for me…” remedies to cure the madness. Social media has done great things, and I’m not about to preach that you abandon the entire Internet (now that would be hypocritical).

Sure, I could beg you to turn off your phone, do yoga, go on a road trip, practice gratitude, pet your cat more, engage in vulnerable conversations over coffee with a friend, or just BE HERE NOW, man! Hey, if it worked for me…

Really, though, I enjoy each of those activities, and if they help tame your anxiety, by god, do them. Furiously type out an unsolicited opinion to this unsolicited opinion in the comments if it makes you feel better.

But alas, I have no answers. Maybe we should just create something haphazard with beautifully wild people, admire and destroy it, then create something else. We won’t find all the answers, but perhaps we’ll be less concerned with them.

{Banner photo by Alessandra.}

Original post found on my blog, Dirty Hands Restless Feet, where I explore wellness, travel, creativity, and more.

I blinked my eyes open at dawn and greeted Ubud, Bali, for the first time. An eerie yet strangely comforting chant emanated from a loudspeaker across the rice paddy, or uma, to the porch of my homestay. Morning prayers. I watched as my coffee’s steam mirrored fog lingering over the terraces. I listened to the hallowed voices for probably an hour, completely captivated.

After a chat with my host mother Wayan, I decided to get an early start in getting to know Ubud. On her recommendation, I wandered to the Ubud Market where I dusted off my negotiation skills and bought a sarong, having realized nearly every woman and girl wore one. Leaving the market, I ducked down into a quiet ravine, eager to get off the noisy Jalan Monkey Forest [Monkey Forest Road].

I followed a narrow staircase from the sidewalk to an inconspicuous path shrouded in vines. Next to a creek and completely cloaked, my senses settled. The din of morning commerce faded away. I changed into my new sarong as I watched ripples spilling and chasing each other over smooth, algae-coated stones. I caught a waft of sweet incense smoke curling around me from a family altar across the stream, and it hit me. I was lonely.

I remembered seeing a flyer for a gathering place called the Love Space which hosted yoga classes, massage, painting workshops, and more, free to everyone. That was exactly what I needed.

I began my search for Love Space on Jalan Jembawan, a narrow, dusty street where people talked and laughed in the road. Charred-sweet smoke hovered above saté carts as friendly, mangy dogs sniffed for scraps. Everything but vehicles were in the street while parked motorbikes took up the sidewalks. I liked the vibe immediately.

After a while, I had circled back at least three times looking for Love Space. No one I asked knew what I was talking about. Just as I was about to give up, a voice shouted from across the street, “Hey! I like your sarong!”

I turned to see two men sitting on the curb, chatting and smoking. One of them was dressed in khaki pants and a polo embroidered with a hotel logo, while the other, the sarong-liking one, wore a t-shirt and a traditional batik sarong and udeng [head covering]. A freshly picked frangipani peeked out of the udeng. “Thanks,” I said and approached.

“Are you going to a temple?” he asked.

“No, why?”

“Because you’re wearing a sarong. You must wear a sarong to enter temples.”

“Oh. I guess I just like them. I bought this one this morning,” I said, smoothing out the creases.

I asked if they knew of this Love Space.

“You mean this place?”

He gestured behind him toward the base of the doorway where faded, hand-painted letters read, L O V E S P A C E. The interior was vacant and under construction.

“Oh,” I said, clearly deflated.

The man in the sarong smiled a kind and honest smile, the kind that emanates from your eyes and just happens to make your lips curve upward toward them in reply. He snuffed his cigarette, and unlike every other smoker I’d seen thus far in Bali, he did not throw it into the street, instead rising to dispose of it.

“Do you want to go to a temple?”

He walked over to a motorbike, inspecting it and adjusting the side mirrors. His friend, silent until now, spoke to him in Balinese and rose to leave.

“Um, yeah. Definitely. But you…” I stammered, “you mean now?”

“Yes.” He offered. “It’s my day off. Have you heard of the Temple of the Holy Water?”

Now, that was intriguing. “No, I haven’t. It sounds lovely.”

While my logical self debated whether it was a good idea to hop on a stranger’s motorbike on my first full day in a new country to who-knows-where and no friends to tell where I was going or when to expect me back, my instinct was already hiking up my sarong and kicking down the passenger footholds of his bike. I just knew I’d be okay.

The adventure began with the crank of engine as we waved farewell to his friend.

The ride out of town was invigorating. We stopped in the village of Tegallalang at what’s considered by many to be the most spectacular rice terrace and at a luwak coffee farm and roastery.

Luwak are small mammals whose digestive tracts cleanse coffee beans of their sharp acidity without breaking them down. When they pass through the animal, people gather, wash, peel, and roast them. They make some of the most expensive coffee in the world, prized for its smooth, sweet taste.

When we approach the Temple of the Holy Water, my face was sore from smiling so widely at every passerby.

The only largely Hindu island in the most populous Muslim-majority country, Bali is home to a proud and vibrant culture. Many holy sites have endured centuries of colonization then Indonesian unification and independence. One of these ancient sites is the Temple of the Holy Water, or Tirta Empul.

Built in 962 A.D. around a large spring, the temple has welcomed Balinese families to cleanse their bodies and spirits for generations. Greeting us at the entrance was an enormous banyan tree where the colorful remnants of dozens of offerings, or canang sari, lay. Their purpose is to praise and appease the gods and invite good energies to meaningful sites and frequented paths.

Locals distribute the small canang sari on woven palm leaves, and you can find them in abundance throughout the streets, temples, by storefronts and at just about any entrance in Bali. They contain a cornucopia of flowers, herbs, and sweets. The older ones surrounding the tree had been picked clean by wildlife, which is just fine with the Balinese. Once the offering is placed the deed is done, and it’s up to the gods what happens to it.

Walking inside, I was humbled by the age and intricacy of the stonework surrounding us. We soon encountered large bathing fountains. Graciously and patiently, my new friend instructed me on how to give thanks, wash, and drink from the pure waters.

I feel my sarong suspended in the cool, refreshing current; round stones beneath my bare feet ground me. I stop at nearly every spout one by one to wash and pray. I skip the last two, which are reserved for the dead, and emerge having never felt so welcome and at home somewhere so different and far from my own.

On the ride back into town, I close my eyes, and every other sense heightens. I feel the Bali air, pregnant with incense smoke and fresh fruit, the rumble of the motorbike beneath me and the wind rippling both my sarong and tangled hair. A plump equatorial sun filtering through the palm fronds above to dance on my skin. My new friend expertly navigating both asphalt and sidewalk back to the heart of Ubud. My heart is gaping open, and I’m free.

As the beautiful chaos of Ubud blossoms in front of us, I open my eyes and shrug off any doubts I had left. I thank the gods and all of Bali for the honor of their presence and guidance. I begin to see my fate twisted among every one’s here, like the gnarled, interlocking branches of a banyan tree. Like one of these fallen giants destined for carving, out of the jungle I feel myself emerge, raw and expectant, into the hands of Bali itself.

Shape me, I pray. I am ready.

Some days, you just have to surrender.

Natalie does her best to live an earthbound existence through slow travel, permaculture, and movement arts. She values minimalism and aims to leave a positive wake everywhere she visits. Find stillness in motion with her as she shares these explorations on her blog: Dirty Hands, Restless Feet (http://dirtyhandsrestlessfeet.com/).

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Serendipitous Surrender in Ubud, Bali was originally published in Roam & Bard on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.