Petra Pan

As I threw the remains of my second bed in the dumpster, I gulped up some of my dinner by the thought of not having a bed to come home to anymore. At the same time, goosebumps of excitement spread through my arms and legs by the idea of being free again. 

Who will I become this time? What parts of me will glow and what will keep hiding in the dark depths? My silent dreams live a life of their own at the back of last decade's notebooks. Still alive. Pulsating. Vibrating. But resting in peace until their time comes.

In Norway I let the Jägermeister girl roam freely through big and small clubs across the country. Shortly after, I locked her down at University of Oslo's library for two years. Just enough time to get a BA to fly me off as quickly as possible to the promised land of California to study consciousness.

My new identity as Student fulfilled a previously dreaded longing for introversion. In fact, I needed the inwards journey so much I ventured into the world of yoga and became a certified instructor. Both in 2010 and 2015 I answered the inner call to delve deep and did 200 and 300 hour trainings. 

Of course, all this inwardness disturbed my extroverted self, which found new and old avenues of expression through: bartending, working as a career center coordinator, teaching, and performing a 20 minute skit about my traumatic life at a San Francisco theater.

California introduced me to new ways of living and more than a dozen amazing souls. In this hub of Peter Pan's we flew together through layers of bliss and dust and dirt, attempting to uncover more of what we already are. Where will my wings take me next? I'm sure I'll be as surprised as anyone of my fellow wanderers...

Photo by: Judy Rukat

Birthing a Butterfly

Almost a month ago I reluctantly entered the final year of my twenties.

Instead of welcoming the times ahead, I regressed to infantile ignorance and drowned my despair in forgotten sins. I grabbed the bottle and merely erased my older self in search of careless days that drifted away long ago.

Turning 29 feels like attempting to give birth to a 60 kg baby. I am birthing myself all over through the womb of my memories. Attempting to assimilate all significant events into a new form.

But it’s so fucking hard. I lie awake at night questioning all the choices I make. Each choice puts me on a different path. How will I ever know what’s the right move and what I lose by choosing one over the other?

All I want is to dance, sing, paint, and create. But instead I dig a deeper, darker hole of dissatisfaction.

What is missing in my life? Why does it not feel like a worthy life for a twenty-nine year old woman?

Is it because I don’t own a home? Or because I haven’t had a steady boyfriend in about ten years? Or maybe it’s because I realized I might prefer to create art over following one of my previous career paths?

I even want to do modelling. And god only knows how beyond old I am for that. I am practically a fossil. And this body...well it sure didn’t slim down on the other side of twenty-five.

In spite of all the self-judgment accompanying twenty-nine, a newfound appreciation for me in my many forms arose.

I am me in my multitude of forms and no number, whether it’s on the scale or on candles digged into a cake will change that. And thank the universe I got another year left to manifest those many me’s before the big three-o. Maybe I’ve grown those luminous rainbow wings and painted my existence with a more suitable palette by the next transition?