Going Back for the Pieces of Myself:

What 120 steps taught me about growing up, getting lost, and remembering who I am.

There are 120 steps at Mago.

Each step represents a year of your life.

The practice, based on the work of Ilchi Lee, is to climb slowly. As you move through the years you've already lived, you remember yourself at that age. Then, when you reach your current age, you keep going.

Into the years you haven't lived yet.

I knew this experience would probably be emotional.

I had no idea how emotional.

Mago is a hard place to explain just outside of Sedona. There are 14 energy vortexes on the property, and the energy here feels incredibly strong to me. Sometimes beautiful. Sometimes almost overwhelming.

I've decided I don't really need to understand it.

I can just experience it.

So I started climbing.

And then I got to step 28.

I stopped.

Twenty-eight was the year we learned Conner was deaf.

And there she was.

Me.

Twenty-eight years old.

I've been thinking about her a lot lately.

I've been doing a lot of work to forgive her, to love her, to understand who she is.

But standing on that step, I realized there was something else I needed to forgive her for.

For growing up overnight.

For believing she had to.

For losing some of the last pieces of her own childhood in the process.

I was technically an adult, of course. I was a mother.

But I can see now how young I still was.

There was still a part of me that believed life would generally work the way it was supposed to work. That if I tried hard enough and loved my children enough, I could keep them safe.

And then suddenly I was sitting in a room being told my little boy couldn't hear - (and 5 years later I sat in a different room being told that he would also become blind).

Something changed in me that day.

I didn't have the language for it then.

I just went to work.

Learn everything.

Find the experts.

Figure out what Conner needed.

Make the decisions.

Fight when necessary.

Keep going.

I became very, very good at it.

I hid my sadness from my husband and the world.

And I think a part of me grew up overnight.

Another part got left behind.

That's the woman I've been trying to understand lately.

Not just the mother.

Her.

The 28-year-old woman who was scared and didn't have time to be scared because there was too much to do.

I wish I could go back and tell her she didn't have to know everything yet.

That she didn't have to become an expert overnight.

That she was allowed to be devastated.

Confused.

Angry.

Alone.

Helpless.

Young.

That she was allowed to need someone to take care of her too.

Instead, she learned to take care of everyone else.

And she would get very, very good at that.

Standing on step 28, I just wanted to nurture her.

I didn't want to fix her.

I wanted to hold her.

I wanted to tell her:

You didn't do everything perfectly.

You couldn't have.

You were 28.

And you were doing the best you could with something that changed your entire understanding of the world.

You are going to be okay.

Actually, more than okay.

You are going to find yourself again.

Your life is going to be fuller than you can ever imagine right now.

So I cried.

And then I kept climbing.

Some years brought memories immediately. Others were quieter. Some hurt.

There were versions of myself I felt tremendous tenderness toward.

And others I still struggled to understand.

As I climbed, I could see just how much of my adult life had been built around being needed.

Mother.

Caregiver.

Advocate.

Problem solver.

The one who figures it out.

The one who keeps going.

It started so early that eventually I stopped realizing I was doing it.

And somewhere around 40, something began to shift.

I could feel myself coming back.

Or maybe meeting myself for the first time.

I started recognizing my gifts instead of apologizing for them.

I started questioning the idea that my worth came from how much I could do for everyone else.

I started allowing myself to be more of who I actually was.

And slowly, I started learning to love her.

Then I reached 50.

And what I felt surprised me.

Peace.

So much peace.

I stood there and thought:

I made it.

Not because everything had turned out perfectly.

It hadn't.

Not because I'd accomplished enough.

It wasn't about accomplishment at all.

I had made it through.

Through the years when I didn't know how I possibly would.

Through the fighting.

Through the caregiving.

Through the loss of people I loved.

Through the end of my marriage.

Through losing myself and finding myself and losing myself again.

Through loving people so much it hurt.

Through becoming so many things for so many people.

I made it.

And somehow, after everything, I was still here.

Still me.

Then I reached 55.

Now.

And I felt so much tenderness for the woman standing on that step.

For me.

I've spent most of my adult life becoming something for someone else.

Mom.

Caregiver.

Advocate.

Researcher.

Wife.

Partner.

Problem solver.

The person who figures it out.

The person who takes care of things.

The person who keeps going.

And I was happy to do it. I would still make those choices today - no question.

But standing there, I wasn't thinking about any of those roles.

I was thinking about me.

Who am I underneath all of that?

And then I got lost.

Seriously.

Everyone else was moving much faster than I was. I couldn't just walk past some of those years.

Apparently, I also managed to miss where I was supposed to go and had gotten off of the path.

By the time I finally made it to the gazebo, everyone else was already there.

I hadn't finished.

I was embarrassed.

And then I completely broke down.

Not a few quiet spiritual tears.

I mean broke down.

Afterward, our group walked to a waterfall.

I put my feet in the water.

And I just sat there.

Cold water.

Rocks.

Trees.

The sound of the waterfall.

Something about it brought me back into my body.

I stopped trying to understand everything that had just happened.

I stopped being embarrassed that it had taken me longer - that I had broken down in front of everyone.

I stopped worrying that I'd somehow done it wrong.

I just sat there.

And slowly, I became calm again.

That's when I knew.

I needed to go back.

I wasn't finished.

Not because I needed to do the exercise correctly.

Because I realized I had spent almost the entire experience looking backward.

And maybe that's what I needed the first time.

I needed to go back and find that 28-year-old.

I needed to see the years when I disappeared into taking care of everyone else.

I needed to see the woman who slowly began finding herself again.

I needed to get to 55 and realize:

I'm still here.

But there were still steps above me.

A lot of them.

And I wanted to know what it felt like to climb those.

So I went back.

And I started again.

I passed 28.

This time, I think I loved her a little more.

I passed 40.

I passed 50.

I reached 55.

And then I stepped onto 56.

A year I haven't lived yet.

Then 60.

70.

71.

I kept climbing.

And suddenly I wasn't remembering anymore.

I was imagining.

For most of my life, I've been so focused on what needs to happen next.

What needs fixing.

Who needs me.

What am I supposed to accomplish?

What's the next project?

What's my purpose?

Especially now.

The kids are grown. The roles that defined so much of my adult life are changing. There is more space in my life than I've ever had before.

And I've been trying really hard to figure out who I'm supposed to become next.

But somewhere on those stairs, I realized something.

Maybe I'm not supposed to become anyone.

Maybe I've done enough becoming.

Maybe this season is about remembering.

Remembering the girl I was before I learned that life could change in a single conversation.

Remembering the parts of me that got left behind when I grew up overnight.

Remembering the scared 28-year-old mother who thought she had to have all the answers.

Remembering the woman around 40 who started discovering her gifts.

Remembering the woman who reached 50 and felt peace.

Remembering the woman standing here now.

All of them are still here.

All of them are me.

Eventually, I reached the top.

This time, I finished.

And I thanked God for my life.

All of it.

Not just the beautiful parts.

Not just the parts I understand now.

The hard parts.

The heartbreak.

The mistakes.

The people I've loved.

The things I never would have chosen.

The things that changed me.

Even the years when I couldn't find myself.

All of it.

I sat at the top for about 30 minutes and talked to God.

I don't know that I'll ever share everything about that conversation.

Some things feel like they're supposed to stay between God and me.

But it was healing.

Deeply healing.

And mostly, I was grateful.

Thank you for this life.

This messy, beautiful, painful, extraordinary life.

Thank you for the 28-year-old who didn't know what she was doing but kept going anyway.

Thank you for the woman who eventually learned she didn't have to keep going all the time.

Thank you for bringing me here.

And then something kind of funny happened.

There was Wi-Fi at the top.

Of course there was.

So I called Bergen.

And somehow that felt perfect too.

Because Bergen knows me.

Not just the roles.

Me.

The intense parts. The tender parts. The quirky parts. The spiritual parts. The parts that overthink everything. The parts that want to talk about feelings all the time. The gifts I spent years trying to make smaller.

So there I was, sitting at the top of 120 steps, after walking through my life twice and having this incredibly healing conversation with God, talking to the person I love.

And I felt so incredibly grateful.

I thought the 120 steps were going to be about looking back at my life.

They weren't.

At least not entirely.

The first time, I walked through the life I've already lived.

I found the places where I hurt.

I found the places where I grew.

I found the moment I had to grow up overnight.

I found pieces of myself I'd left behind.

Then I got lost.

I fell apart.

I put my feet in the water.

And I went back.

The second time, I walked toward the life I haven't lived yet.

And somewhere along the way, I understood.

I don't need to find the next version of myself.

I don't need to reinvent myself.

I don't need to have the next chapter figured out.

I've spent enough of my life believing I needed to become something.

Maybe this part is simpler.

Maybe it's about going back for the pieces of myself I left behind.

The girl who didn't have to take care of everyone.

The young woman who was allowed not to know.

The scared mom.

The warrior.

The researcher.

The writer.

The woman who loves deeply.

The woman who feels everything.

The woman who is finally learning that she doesn't have to earn her place in the world by being needed.

Me.

I climbed 120 steps twice.

And somehow, at the top, I didn't find a new version of myself.

I remembered the person who had been there all along.

I remembered who I am.

And maybe that's what I've been looking for all this time.

About the 120 Steps

The 120 Steps experience is connected to Ilchi Lee's teachings about imagining a full 120-year life—not simply as a goal of longevity, but as an invitation to think differently about the life we have already lived and the life that may still be ahead of us. His book on the 120-year life explores the idea of approaching our later years with intention, purpose, and possibility.

I certainly didn't expect a staircase to become one of the most meaningful parts of this retreat.

But it did.

And finally, so much gratitude to Mayume and Manjeet for creating this extraordinary retreat and bringing this group of women together.

Something beautiful happens when women are given the space to be vulnerable, to listen to one another, to laugh, to cry, to heal, and to be fully themselves.

Thank you both for holding that space for us—and for helping create a sisterhood I didn't know I needed when I arrived.

I came here thinking I needed some time away.

I'm leaving remembering who I am—and carrying a whole group of sisters with me.