“It was oddly freeing. No one knew me from my actual life, so I could be anyone I wanted. Instead of the boring accountant who watches The Crown and is in bed by ten, there I was a daredevil. The life of the party, even.”
Amy looked amused and slightly skeptical.
J leaned in. “I climbed a twenty-foot tree using nothing but my bare hands and feet. I swam naked in the ocean and convinced a handful of other people to join me. Me! The woman who hates public speaking and hasn’t lain on a beach in half a decade because she despises bathing suits that much. It’s like this wilder, more alive version of me has been waiting for her chance to break free.” She paused, then said, “I’m going to quit.”
Amy’s eyes widened when she understood what her friend was telling her. “Your job? Here?” she squealed. J shushed her and nodded. “What’ll you do instead?”
“I might finally apply to that French cooking school.” Amy clapped a hand over her mouth. J munched on a fry, thinking. “I’ve been at this career twenty years and I’m not even sure why. What am I so scared of? People judging me for starting over at forty? Failing at whatever I do next? Before Wisewood I could rationalize the steady job, the comfortable but slightly dull life. I’m a different person now. The world is teeming with possibilities, and I get to pick which ones I want.”
The spark in J’s eyes sold me, her newfound conviction that life was so much more than a bunch of pointless routines. The piecemeal efforts I’d been incorporating into my daily life—ten minutes of deep breathing here, a therapy session there, no drinking on weeknights—hadn’t gotten me far enough. I was healthier but no more revved up about my future. I wanted a big change. I wanted to blow up my life like this woman had.
I ran back to my desk, googled Wisewood, and signed up for more information. An e-brochure landed in my inbox soon after. I stared at the words until I had them memorized: Weeks 1–8: Discovery; Weeks 9–16: Application; Weeks 17–24: Mastery. Each phase outlined course work, one-on-ones, and workshops. Splashed throughout were gushing testimonials. At the end of it all was the price tag: four thousand dollars for six months, including room and board and all programming.
I sucked in a breath, nearly clicked away until I started doing the math. Six months of rent on my Brooklyn studio cost more than that. The therapist I’d seen once or twice charged a hundred dollars per session. To see her every day for six months would cost me 18,400 dollars. Wisewood was one-quarter of that price, plus it included lodging and meals. I would actually save money living there, as long as I could get out of my lease.
At the end of the brochure was a link to a three-page online application, asking for basic personal information, family and medical histories, and an essay. What are you struggling with? the application wanted to know. How have you tried to resolve your problems in the past? What are you hoping to get out of your time at Wisewood?
I let the e-mail sit for a week, even deleted it once before dragging it back to my inbox twelve hours later. I couldn’t leave the idea alone—a blank slate, a fresh start somewhere no one knew me. A chance to build a life I wanted. I might not have known what that life looked like yet, but maybe Wisewood could tell me. I filled out the form at two in the morning one sleepless Friday, pressing send before I could change my mind. Thank you for your application, the confirmation e-mail said. We aim to respond to all applicants within 48 hours. If you are approved, you will receive a follow-up e-mail informing you of your stay dates. If these dates do not work for you, we’ll give you two alternatives. You must pick from one of those three options. Payment is due upon arrival.
I woke up the next morning to an invitation to join. I’d been walking on air ever since.
That explained how I’d come to Wisewood but hardly clarified why. Why did I want to blow up my life? Because I’d sobbed in the shower every morning for the past year and a half? Because people said the grief would come in waves, but for me it had been a thirty-foot surge that never let up? Because the only way I could stop the guilt was by drowning myself in so many commitments that I didn’t have time to think? I snapped the elastic band on my wrist against already-pink skin.
The person to Ruth’s right said she’d struggled with anxiety for forty years. The second was lonely—he had retired in Maine last year and wanted to build a community of active seniors. The third hoped to be less afraid of death. He had a slow-moving terminal illness.
While they spoke, I studied the motivational posters on the walls. Some were conventional—a kitten hung from a tree limb by its claws with big bubble letters encouraging us to HANG IN THERE! Others had been made specifically for and by Wisewood staff or guests. One illustrated a complicated Maslowesque pyramid with MAXIMIZED SELF printed in big letters at the top. Another listed the three principles of Wisewood: