I nod, thanking her again for the tissue, and watch as shewalks away. But it’s not peace I feel washing over me in waves. It’s that same wobbly uncertainty I remember from my wedding weekend.
ON THETHURSDAY MORNINGbefore I was supposed to get married, I hopped in an Uber to LAX and boarded a flight bound for Vegas. Cliché, I know, the runaway bride escaping to Sin City, but I wasn’t going there to gamble, or party, or even elope. I was going to center myself.
The night before, at my last-minute, pseudo-bachelorette party, the reality of what I was about to do hit me like a freight train. I, Sybil Rain, was getting married. For real this time. This wasn’t a hormone-fueled teenage mistake, like it had been with Liam. It wasn’t a half-baked flight of romantic fancy like it had been with Seb. This was the real deal.
This was forever.
And my body was full-on rejecting it. I’d felt off all night, seizing up with cramps in my abdomen, and despite trying to distract myself with the company of my closest friends, I returned to my hotel suite a weepy, mascara-dripping mess, trying on my wedding gown in the middle of the night because I was convinced it wouldn’t fit. But it wasn’t the dress that was the problem.
It was me.
And the secret I’d been holding in from everyone.
Which was why I had to talk to Gwendolyn Green. She’s my therapist and a renowned wellness coach, but she’s more than that. She’s the one person who knows every detail aboutmy history. What happened with Liam back in high school, and everything since. She was the only person I could think of who could help stop my spiraling and understand the source of it.
Only the problem with renowned wellness coaches is that they’re in very high demand, and as I frantically dialed her office over and over with no answer, I began to realize I might not get ahold of her. Which was when I looked her up on social media, and saw she was giving a talk in Vegas.
For anyone else, I understand that it might seem a littlenot normalto ditch your wedding to fly out and see your therapist give a speech on women’s health and wellness in the hopes of cornering her for a private session after… but I’m not normal.
In more ways than one.
So, heart beating out of my chest the whole way, I told my mom a little white lie—that I needed a special spa treatment—and instead flew to Vegas, touched down, and went straight to the MGM Grand.
By some miracle—and a ticket vendor who was averygood listener—I scored a last-minute pass for the conference and slipped into Gwendolyn’s talk minutes before it was about to start. Just seeing her take the stage at the MGM Grand in a cream linen top with matching flowy pants put me instantly in a better place. Her ash-blond hair hung in waves to her collarbone. Her sharp gray eyes surveyed the crowd from behind her green-rimmed glasses.
The speech was brilliant—funny, moving. She spoke about the power of self-commitment amid the toxic messaging of society, how no advances in women’s health and medical research can be achieved without committed large-scale action. But, tobe honest, I wasn’t listening that hard. I fidgeted the whole time, waiting for it to be over so I could corner her alone.
As soon as the speaking portion of the event wrapped, I hurried to the book-signing line. I needed to talk to Gwendolyn face-to-face. Finally, I reached the front, and she blithely held out her hand to sign my book, when suddenly, she looked up and saw it was me. “Sybil! So nice to see you! But… what are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you. I—” I looked over my shoulder at the line behind me, feeling out of place and foolish. But I barreled on. “I know it’s not your policy but I’m hoping we could have an emergency session later today? Something has come up.”
“Sybil, aren’t you supposed to be getting married this weekend? I—I really don’t think this is appropriate. Of course I want to help you out, but this isn’t the right place and time.”
I think that was when I started crying.
She stood up from behind the table and hugged me. I grabbed her shoulders and whispered something quietly in her ear. I needed her to understand how urgent this was. What I was most afraid of in the world.
She hugged me again, tighter this time, then stood back, and said in words that rang something deep within me:
“Sweetheart. I’m so sorry. But I need you to hear me, Sybil. What you need isn’t a therapist right now. What you need is a doctor.”
AFTER THE SPA,Igo back to my room and order room service for lunch. I’m not risking running into Jamie and Genevieve againat one of the resort restaurants. I just need to make it to the day after tomorrow, when he said they’d be leaving.
While I wait for the food to arrive, I unzip the luggage that I have yet to unpack. When I used to travel with Jamie, he found it insanely annoying that I would take so long to settle into our hotel rooms, usually letting my clothes spill out of my open luggage for days until I couldn’t tell what was clean and what was dirty.
I can’t help it; I’m a messy person. Always have been. My childhood bedroom was a constant disaster of stuffed animals and half-finished science projects. But it was my safe place. The one place where I could really beme. Well, there, and my tree house in the backyard. I used to escape there when my “big feelings” got to be too much. My parents weren’t therapy people—Mom found the whole thing distasteful, said it was like airing your dirty laundry to a stranger—so I didn’t know then that what I was experiencing was a form of panic attack. I just knew that if I wanted to avoid being grounded, I had to make myself scarce until I calmed down. My mom and dad are the sweetest people ever, truly, but their expectations of me have always been high, and their values old-fashioned. Conservative, in the traditional sense of the word. They expected a daughter who fell in line, and instead, I think from a very young age, I was just a little too much for them to grasp. They did their best to polish up my bright sides, and they hid the dark, complicated stuff as well as they could—even from themselves.
I slide my laptop from my tote bag, brushing off some crumbs from a granola bar that disintegrated in my bag somewhere between leaving my place in LA and right now, andspend a few hours editing videos, drafting vlog content for later, doing a little research, and responding to emails. I’m surprised to find it’s nearly six p.m by the time I finally look up from my screen. Including my time in the spa, I’ve basically been indoors all day, which seems like it should be illegal when you’re in Hawaii. Maybe I’ll do dinner at that cute outdoor tiki bar I passed by on my way to the beach yesterday morning.
Before I go, I do one last check of my work emails. There’s a new one from my boss, Meredith, telling me that the reel I posted yesterday with curated video clips documenting my arrival here to Halia Falls is getting great engagement.
The place looks beautiful! Reminder—we also want to do more casual, straight-to-camera reels to encourage people to tune in for the eclipse live stream on Friday where we will be doing the limited discount for channel subscribers only. Thanks, Sybil!
Well, I guess now’s as good a time as any. I do a quick mirror check and dab on some blush and a light coat of mascara, just so I don’t look totally washed out on screen.
I grab my cell and start recording.
“Okay, so, is anyone else dealing with seriously ridiculous life events right now? Weird things from your past popping up when you least expect them? Feelings you don’t know what to do with? Well, we might have Friday’s blood moon to thank for that. These kinds of eclipses are often described as wild cards. During this cosmic cycle, anything’s possible, so I guess you just have to go with the flow—which I know is easier said than done, trust me. And speaking of going with the flow, don’t miss out on Flowies 50% off sale this week! And don’t forget to tune into our Instagram live this Friday whereyour first month with Flowies is free if you subscribe during the live stream!”
