I have been filled with anxiety, chaos, and uncertainty since Trump won his second presidential election. During this collective crisis, I am wondering how we can both fight back and remain sane. I have lots of practice fighting back. However, I sometimes need a reminder on how to stay sane. To keep the peace in my heart, I turn to lessons I learned during the other high-tension moments in my life.
Three of these peak-stress times in my life gave me unexpected gifts. After losing my father to suicide in 2008, I learned the importance of cultivating peace of mind through meditation. During the onset of the COVID pandemic, I intentionally developed the courage to share my writing. In the wheelchair days of the summer of 2023, I learned to combat the psychological drain from FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out). Thanks to these opportunities, I developed useful tools for staying sane. These are the tools I need now!
Resisting helplessness and despair during Trump 2.0 chaos will make us stronger. Applying these tools to stay sane is part of maintaining a sense of personal agency and self-efficacy. In a nod to these lessons, I am revisiting and sharing my own advice.
My Practices for Sanity:
People often say time is our most valuable resource. I disagree. Our emotional energy is even more precious than clock time. Our attention, actions, and the buzzing energy of our consciousness are our biggest resources. Emotional energy powers focus and the capacity to care, feel, and be moved.
Keeping that in mind, I will be incredibly selective on where I put my emotional energy in 2025.
1. Save Social Security: Intentional & Aligned Friends
In 2024, I often worked to include diverse members of my social circle in my various social activities. In some ways, I felt that I owed the whole community because they took care of me after my accident a year and a half ago.
A Brunch With the Ladies Who Keep It Real
In 2025, I feel the need to be much more selective about aligning with individuals who share the values of respect, thoughtfulness, and consideration. This means not chasing anyone for friendship, community, and company. To find that, I will spend my emotional energy with individuals who can reciprocate with similar frequencies of thoughtfulness and effort.
2. Growing Your Assets: Developing & Nurturing the Heart
The devices we use regularly challenge our capacity to focus. Our energies scatter while our phones, computers, and cars constantly beep at us. Consider the last time you looked at your phone for ONE specific reason only to fall into a black hole. When I do this, I emerge with less energy and lose time.
To counterbalance this in 2025, I find myself pausing and taking breaths as a centering practice. Beyond just an intentional time out, I feel myself drawn deeper into the practice of meditation. Last week, a friend taught me about a meditation center just minutes from my home. The instruction for meditating there was unique. It was my first time trying to meditate with my eyes open! By learning to sit with the swirling of thoughts, we are actually growing the capacity to develop our inner reserve of peace and focus. Doing this with eyes open seemed like the perfect metaphor for Trump 2.0.
Another source of power and peace at this time is literature. We can develop empathy and understanding through literature. In 2025, I have invited others to join me in reading heart-opening classics. To prepare for the onslaught of chaos, I have started a very small and invite-only group of friends to read with me. The book club strongly prefers readers with expansive minds and soft hearts. Our readings are designed to further our common search for humanity and compassion through literature. For our first book, we will be reading The Fire Next Time.
3. The Tax of Appreciation: Gifts of Gratitude
In moments of challenge, a physical form of beauty is the easiest reminder to pause with gratitude. By gaining the capacity to appreciate beauty, we bring presence and awareness into the moment.
I return over and over again to develop the capacity for gratefulness. It is a treasure to have, and it cultivates the ability to appreciate beauty. During the pandemic, I began purchasing fresh flowers on a regular basis. This tiny luxury constantly paid for itself.
The intentional honing of gratitude is a reminder to say thank you to the universe. Something as simple as rearranging a room, noticing light and beauty, or feeling moved by a poem can bring us to a better emotional state. It helps us see our privileges and assess our situation with more perspective. We can move toward a place of better emotional energy from one simple physical observation. I have found such small pauses aggregate into replenishing good heart energy. I invite you to try it.
With this handful of intentions, I see 2025 as an opportunity. It will be a moment to find alignment, growth, and appreciation.
How are you maintaining your peace through this rough patch?
The first few weeks of December 2024 have been an awakening. Just one month after a grifter was elected president of the United States, the December 4th assassination of the United Healthcare CEO unleashed a rage brewing in the American psyche. In a country deeply divided by a pivotal election cycle, the bold morning murder of a shady CEO has united Americans in an existential furor.
This rage is unsurprising for anyone denied critical healthcare or receiving a bureaucratic runaround for essential treatment. The assassin’s celebration points to a righteous anger that demands candid conversations. At least three essential topics demand our collective attention:
1. Healthcare as a Right
The anger around our healthcare system is linked to a more profound intuition within us, demanding and pointing at what should be universally acknowledged as a right. We are born to live. And to live well, we need healthcare. Ideologically, our constitution speaks of the right to liberty and the pursuit of happiness. These are meaningless fluff without access to the right to health and the ability to live with quality of life. Most people internally intuit or acknowledge this right to health.
However, Americans are NOT supported by national policies that ensure access to health care. After Obamacare required Americans to purchase health insurance, no corollary was needed for health insurance companies to pay for care.
Our recent collective memory still carries the threats from the global COVID pandemic. The idea of a universal American right to healthcare could have taken hold in 2020, near the pandemic’s beginning. This opportunity was squandered. Our elite political class is instead tied up denying care to trans people, reducing choices for women, and funding genocide abroad.
Photo by National Cancer Institute on Unsplash
Ironically, in the “world’s richest country,” people who are required to pay into a health insurance system regularly go bankrupt from medical expenses while dutifully paying into the very system that denies life-saving care. Michael Moore recently made his 2007 movie Sicko freely available to the public. It gives insightful and relevant lessons on comparative health systems. There is no question that a better alternative is available. Poorer countries routinely do better with less resources.
2. Class Consciousness
This country is home to greater and greater income and wealth inequality. The extreme and obscene wealth of a select few shields them from the costs of daily life. This privileged group has the luxury of health care. Meanwhile, most Americans are one disaster away from financial ruin.
On the morning of December 4th, the CEO of UnitedHealthcare was set to speak to his shareholders. This role requires sharing how his company would continue to forsake health for profit in the name of those very shareholders. In the face of extreme systemic poverty, this corporate greed and the political purchasing power of the elite are infuriating.
The pandemic began highlighting how American poverty exists for those who are tied up being “essential” expendable workers. The working conditions for these essential workers are at the heart of economic exploitation. This stratification is unhealthy for society and fuels the feelings of `us versus them.`
While Americans are spoiled by the cereal choices available at the grocery store, this is a shallow choice when the costs of living, rent, and daily expenses outpace income growth. There is an awakening of class consciousness as people struggle to survive.
3. Death by Bureaucracy
The words delay, deny, and depose were engraved on the bullet casings found at the site of the United Healthcare CEO’s murder. These words embody the tactics health insurers use to avoid payments for medical care. The practice is so well established there is a book on how to fight it. This bureaucratic practice is reminiscent of how large corporations fight off lawsuits by smaller parties. They send an army of lawyers to tie up small plaintiffs.
A South Park Clip on Healthcare paints a poignant picture of this indignation by bureaucracy. It is a slow and painful death by hundreds of paper cuts. This financial toxicity is studied and further reduces the years of one’s life. Those of us who are sick have to battle with such tactics while our quality of life slowly withers away.
We live in a system that is killing us by bureaucracy. To add insult to this slow death, there is increasing anger at the level at which computerized “intelligence” is making decisions on the questions of human life.
Demand Solutions
While Americans are obsessed with what is, we do not spend nearly enough time imagining what could be. It is difficult to find the space to dream when you are unsure if you can make rent.
Our American society condones using our tax dollars to incarcerate people of color instead of funding healthcare, education, and social services. This is a policy choice that undervalues life. Many systemic problems, such as poor public transportation, underfunded human services, and an overall disregard for the public good, have reduced the quality of American life. This collectively dehumanizes us and evaporates our capacity to fight back. Putting the pulse on the problem is just the beginning of demanding better.
Many other countries with smaller economies and lower GDPs do more with less. They make it a point to create viable social safety nets. Indeed, the growth of human potential requires the fulfillment of our basic needs as a prerequisite to enjoy liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
Conclusions
Since my last post, I have struggled with the results of our November presidential election in the United States. On December 3, I had follow-up physical therapy for some ongoing wrist pain from my accident in May 2023. Last year, my insurance company did not cover physical therapy for both my broken limbs. I had to choose to work on either my leg or my wrist. Since I did not want to pay for more wrist PT out of pocket, I put off additional appointments then.
The following day, on December 4th, the United Healthcare CEO was assassinated in New York City. In targeting an elite figurehead of this healthcare problem, this assassin has done more to unite different parts of America than any politician, musician, or movement. The collective response has been righteous anger at healthcare companies.
Outside of the NYPD, it did not seem like anybody cared to see the CEO assassin caught. In New York itself, justice exists for the wealthy. Not long after the CEO assassination, another white male was acquitted of murdering a street performer on the subway.
The rallying call for healthcare is to Remember the 4th of December. It represents a universal acknowledgment of the right to health, an awakening of class consciousness, and a protest against death by bureaucracy.
Alchemy, the medieval forrunner for chemistry, is also the name of Atlanta’s regional burn. My love for Alchemy has outlived all my other interests. I have loved attending Alchemy longer than any job I have ever had, longer than any relationship I have been in, and even through my longest residence anywhere.
From my very first taste in 2013, my passion for this event has been infectious. It is a gospel and fanaticism that I have encouraged others to engage in since my first experience eleven (11) years ago.
Effigy, Alchemy 2013
The ethos of a burn distinguishes it from festivals, concerts, and other communal celebrations. Nothing is for sale (decommodification) at a burn, and you are expected to bring what you need to thrive (radical self-reliance). Over 100+ camps bring art, music, and events, but attendees are encouraged to engage instead of simply being passive, casual consumers (participation). The culture within the burn can be described by these 10 Principles: decommodification, gifting, leave no trace, radical inclusion, radical self-reliance, communal effort, civic duty, radical self-expression, immediacy, and participation.
In 2013, at my very first burn, I entered Cherokee Farms and exited through a crucible of art and magic into a portal of revelry. Burner Beach, the theme camp I was invited to join, consisted of friends who shared a cross-cultural consciousness and a dedication to living life fully. In the first few hours of my arrival at camp, a neighboring camper got completely nude before setting up her tent. Witnessing this casual nudity was the beginning of my many awakenings. The world I encountered at Alchemy was playful, fun, free-spirited, and karmically fair. As a participant, I felt that what I brought into my heart created the pre-conditions for magic. Spontaneous, entertaining, and playful moments were counterbalanced with heart-full conversations about the world, community, and our collective concerns.
Temple 2013
As I try to put my finger on why I keep coming back, I credit the ethos of the burn for creating the structure that encourages participants to be their best selves. Of the ten principles, my favorites include:
Radical self-expression
Many of us live deeply filtered day-to-day lives. An over-corporatized world has many constraints on our speech. Many people live in a curmudgeonly sense of squareness. Radical self-expression allows us to throw off artificial filters and take pride in our expression as a form of celebration. The joy of wearing fun costumes, cosplaying, and improvising is a call to reinvigorate a more creative way of moving about on Earth. I see this principle as an essential reminder to say your piece, be who you are, and exist as you are called to.
My cousin Ali joined for 2024!
Radical inclusion
As a forever misfit, I have often felt like an outsider, unincluded, or awkward. A combination of social anxiety and personal insecurity previously played out while negotiating social boundaries. At Burns, however, participants bring an open-hearted, inclusive approach to strangers. Every one of us worked hard to arrive at the burn. Together, we are participating in magnifying our inner lights. This simple, beautiful humanity helps me come out of my shell. Quirks, nerdiness, and geekdoms all hang out in full view.
Art Stop at San Escobar, Alchecmy 2024
Communal Effort
A big fire, a giant tree harvest, and a big party require communal effort. The biggest things require many hands. Volunteers put on the entire burn. (Some minor exceptions include the operation of the porta potties and paid professional medical staff). By and large, though, from the board members to the event leads and even the cleaning and planning crews, these people spend their free time working to create the world of Alchemy.
When I returned to Atlanta in 2022 with the decision to place roots, I wanted to take steps towards deeper participation in creating the magic of Alchemy. The following fall, in 2023, with a team of other cyclists, BBBbikes camp first came to Alchemy. BBBbikes camp brings a bike share that is available to all burn participants. I was just months into healing after my jarring cycling accident. Seeing our bulky blue bikes rolling through the burn motivated me to keep providing this gift.
Temple Art Stop at Alchemy 2024
This year, in 2024, in addition to BBBbikes, I helped organize people in a shared village with the Visitors Center, another camp. I often confronted the countervailing tension between radical self-reliance and communal effort. A fellow camp mate wanted to bring a freezer camping. His gift of ice and coolness in the heat was also a feat of logistics. It was a unique problem that manifested itself as the perfect test of communal effort and radical self-reliance by working as a group, we were able to deliver this gift to our camp mates.
The curious and complex juxtapositions required in leadership work are also grounded in another favorite principle.
Civic Duty
As an activist, organizer, and occasional teacher, the call to civic duty already resonates. The structure that empowers openness, generosity, and goodwill takes a sense of civic duty to uphold. The leadership team embodies civic duty and a desire for continuous and dynamic growth within the organization. Each year the burn operates, organizers look at the event and use community surveys to reflect on how aspirational principles operate on the ground. This dedication is founded on a culture that acknowledges the limitations of our individual blind sights and looks for opportunities for growth. Each year, the burn better evolves to meet the desires of participants.
This year, I had a challenging opportunity to exercise my civic duty. Our event took place along land bordering the off-limits Chattahoochee River. Within the leadership support tent, I witnessed a neighboring camper suggest to an inexperienced lead that throwing a tray of withered food toward the Chattahoochee River, and past an orange fence would be OK. Casually tossing food in the direction of the river goes against the spirit of several principles: leave no trace, civic duty, and communal effort. The neighboring camper, apparently a many-time burner, condoned this action to a newer team member. The interchange between them happened too fast for me to object; I was shocked and mortified to see a tray of vegetables tossed into the ground. I felt disappointed to see someone using the privilege of their experience to exercise laziness and disrespect. For me, this act illustrated an essential teachable moment.
Effigy Burn, Alchemy 2024
On their own, these principles seem like a good set of guidelines. Like all aspirations, they do not live in a vacuum. Some moments bring us to weigh the conflict and interactions between these principles. Like my high school sport, Lincoln-Douglas Debate, it is in the meeting of the values that we can flesh out our overall social or cultural goals. Balancing these helps us create a world where we practice living the best versions of ourselves.
We can be numb or unaware of our personal blind spots. As we burn, we can meet people and learn the lessons they have to give. Through our encounters, we begin to see how our choices impact others and the consequences of our lifestyles on Earth. Our actions can have consequences we do not anticipate. To some extent, we are blind to the consequences we have on others with the impressions we create on them. Here, civic duty and self-expression meet to require some affirmative action.
We all have room to grow, and as we grow in the community, we learn more and more about the nuances of these principles and how to apply them in our daily, default world lives. This constant room for dynamic growth acknowledges the need for grace as we metamorphose into kinder, gentler, and more aware souls.
Lighting the Void
This year, after a demanding run as a Theme Camp Organizer, shared village facilitator, and on-site responsibility as the lead for Education & Greeters, I found myself STILL at the fountainhead of energy.
Critical Infrastructure Village: BBBbikes & The Visitor Center
What fuels this fountain of energy? As I put my fingers on the pulse and reassess the why, I believe it is because we have the option in our lives, post-burn, to carry elements of the burn ethos into the default world. The magic and joy people feel at the burn is a reminder to revisit again and again the intentional culture we can create together.
This year’s Alchemy theme, Lighting the Void, becomes a reality. When dedicated to carrying out a community vision, we can co-create a better world. Once burners leave the event, they can carry their renewed and bettered selves into the default world. Through many iterations, we slowly spread the power of Alchemy.
Thanks for reading Sabrina’s Newsletter! This post is public so feel free to share it.
Last Wednesday, August 28, 2024, was an important anniversary for me. It was the 16-year mark since I lost my father. I was 24 when he passed and it was my first time to directly experience the death of anyone in my life. It took me many years before I could talk openly about his death. Behind some misguided demands for secrecy, wracked by guilt and shame, I carried a damning hole in my heart.
Dad & Me, 2008
Life can be infinite suffering or infinite joy. I want to choose joy. The lessons I learned from that loss made joy my driving imperative in life. I have seen a life without joy. I know a man who conquered hurdles his whole life yet never filled his own heart. I saw the condition it put him in.
An important part of those lessons includes being able to share deeply and honestly while in pain. When I had my cycling accident last year, I used the many lessons I learned from those difficult initial moments of grieving my Dad. As I lay on the asphalt waiting for an ambulance, I used breathing techniques I learned in meditation. During my lonely moments, I asked for help. When I felt FOMO, I created my plans.
In Tokyo, I delivered the below true-life story at a Moth-styled event on the tenth anniversary of my Dad’s death. I share it here to help identify the importance of sharing and broadening our perspective.
TRIGGER WARNING: Suicide.
Both Sides of the Lake, 2018.
Many of you recall 2008 as the year that Lehman Brothers went bankrupt, the American housing market crashed and President Obama was elected. For me, 2008 was filled with different milestones.
In May 2008, I graduated from the University of Maryland, School of Law. I was one of the youngest graduates in my class. In late July, I took the Maryland bar exam. At the beginning of August, I was headed from my hometown Atlanta, Georgia to Geneva, Switzerland. It was the beginning of exciting things for me. I worked with my law school contacts to land an internship at the World Health Organization. It was unpaid, but I am very ambitious. I was certain I could coax a job offer by the end of the three-month internship.
As my Dad drove me to the Hartsfield-Jackson airport, I was ready to begin my career and follow my dreams. Atlanta was a great place to grow up. But I had always wanted to live abroad, in an international city, surrounded by diverse people and doing meaningful work. As we drove through the heart of Atlanta along Interstate 75/85, I recall telling my Dad to also start doing some positive things for himself. I wondered about his recent Debbie-downer disposition. I was missing the depth of his condition. My father, who was once a doctor in Tanzania, was pleased that I would be working in a WHO group that writes health policy guidance for developing African countries. For me, this was the beginning of my beginning. By the time I boarded my flight, I had already left the American South.
Geneva has such beautiful charm.The old buildings, red brick, and ivy, have immense power over me. In the streets, I heard many multi-lingual conversations. My stars seemed to be lining up. I first arrived at my CouchSurfing host’s house with a massive roller bag and bright eyes. My host was a lifelong resident of Geneva. His travels far outstripped mine; he was a nexus of connections and insight. He exuded positive energy.
Summer is a lovely time to be in Geneva. It is sunny and gorgeous. The city surrounds lake Geneva. Many visitors from the Middle East come to luxuriate in snazzy cafes and enjoy civil liberties. In mid-August, there is the Fêtes de Genève, a festival celebrating Geneva’s international-ness. Street vendors and food stalls from all over the world gathered along the banks of the lake. The festival culminates in a huge fireworks show. My Couch Surfing host grew up in the city and knew the best place to see the show up close and personal. I love fireworks. I have always loved fireworks. They make me feel like a child. Even now, at Japanese Matsuris, I can’t help but look for the best vantage point to get right under them.
For the Fêtes de Genève, my CS host directed us out onto a finger of the lake that juts into the center where a fountain normally operates. Along this rocky finger, we would be exactly underneath the middle of the lake, and underneath the fireworks. As the sunset along the lake, it set on me that this was a special place time and place in my life. I stood at the doorway of my dreams. Many other CouchSurfers joined this hangout. With drinks, snacks, and laughs, we watched fireworks explode overhead. The sounds reverberated within my body. I felt electric; alive. It was an extraordinary night, and I felt a little bit like a social butterfly.
The next few weeks were a whirlwind of new people, intellectual seminars, and city explorations. I had started looking for a room to rent for the duration of my internship. It was Thursday, August 28, 2008, my Dad sent me an email that morning. In the same afternoon, I found and put down a deposit for a room in a house for the remainder of my time in Geneva. I was getting situated in the city. Early that evening, I went to catch up on happy hour with some fellow intern friends on a public pier exactly opposite the end of the lake from where I had seen the fireworks two weeks before. Many people were hanging out, and several dialogues going on. A few brown bagged drinks were had. I floated the idea of going salsa dancing.
As I went to message a local friend, I noticed that I had seven missed calls from my sister. That was odd. She did not have my cellphone number in Geneva. I managed to call back, internationally from that same spot. It was my first time calling home since I had arrived.
The voice on the other side was flat, dry, matter of fact. My sister said that Dad had died. Huh? I demanded that she put my mother on the phone. My Mom told me to say a prayer. And then she told me to sit down. She repeated, your Dad is no longer in this world.
I was confused. He had just sent me an email that morning…. He had just sent an email in the morning. He said he was going away. He asked that I take care of my mother and sister. I had responded to his email from the WHO office, asking where he was going…
That night, I was wrecked and confused. A friend walked me back to the flat I was subletting. He opened for me the only beer left in the fridge. We sat outside in the courtyard. I don’t know what we talked about. But, he hung out with me while I tried to arrange a flight back to Atlanta. In the morning, he made sure I got to the airport. There I burst into tears at the ticket counter when they could not initially find my reservation. By the time I boarded a flight, I felt catatonic. It was a long, lonely journey across the Atlantic. In less than a month, I was already headed back to the place I tried so hard to leave.
Family Trip to India, 2003
When I arrived in Atlanta, my older cousin and her husband picked me up at the airport. It was pitch dark at night; they were supposed to take me to my parent’s home. They were taking some unknown route. I knew my roads and I ached for something that made sense. I was still so confused. I asked where we were going, I did not have much else to say. My stomach felt like I was on an extended zero-gravity ride. I gave in to the confusion and slumped sideways in the back of their car.
At my parent’s home, I arrived at a house full of strangers wearing all white, and chanting in a foreign language. It felt surreal. The living room and kitchen were spilling over with people in billowing white garb. There was nowhere to sit. People were standing, pressed along walls, and in doorways, on the stairs. As I adjusted and looked closer, I realized they were not strangers at all. They were our friends and family. Still, they all just looked strange gathered around, reciting prayers out loud.
My eyes searched for my father. I suppose all those people seemed strange because they were not him. I was looking for Dad at home, where he was supposed to be. I did not sleep that time. The funeral the next day was open casket. As the oldest child of my father, it was my special privilege to get to sit at the very front. I saw his body, which did not move with the inhalation and exhalation of life. In my nostrils, I smelled the pungent stench of death.
I did not need any more confirmation. It became clear then; that my Dad took his own life. This man who loved eating strange food, who taught me how to grow roses, and who took me all over the world, was not here anymore. He loved to eat and was adventurous about it. Fish eyes, corn nuts, strange barbecues, and exotic fruits like durian and rambutan were some of his favorites. He was impulsive and funny. And he would not be around any longer.
Family Trip, Costa Rica
The following months were a blur. I helped my family go through my Dad’s belongings. Piles of clothes, papers, stamps. I sorted through my father’s mail. I cried a lot. I did not return to my internship in Geneva. Sometimes, I could not even get out of bed.
I was also very mad. I wanted someone to be responsible. I was angry at everyone around who had not treated him kindly in my absence. Most of all, I was angriest at myself. I scolded him on my drive to the airport; the last time I saw him alive, my last words were criticism.
I stayed conflicted by my anger, and my Dad’s directive to take care of Mom and my Sister. I was also heartbroken. I could not accept that Dad, the man who taught me HOW to live was no longer alive. And yes, there was some element of selfishness. When we mourn, often we are sad for our loss. We suffer their absence, and all the while we must continue living.
For a decade, I have searched for answers, explanations, and meaning. That was its own agony. My attention was focused backward, on the tragic, on the heavy depression-laden choices. There was a deep demand to carry the burden of this mystery that follows suicide. The WHY?
On this, the tenth anniversary of my Dad’s death. I started to reflect on the roller-coaster ride of grief. Usually, I looked backward from a paradigm of begrudging his actions. And somehow, in my new and chaotic life in Tokyo, it occurred to me that perhaps to try, finally, a different angle.
So much of my difficulties were in a vain effort to find meaning. Instead, I thought to notice where I was. Here I am, in Japan. Eating strange food, going on adventures, seeking out nature, and finding ways to laugh. Without wanting to, or realizing it, I found that I did not NEED a reason or explanation for my father’s actions.
After this, I decided not to mourn more, but instead to celebrate. Here I am living fully with my Joie de Vivre. In my heart, a resolution came from all the confusion. I released the command to find logic and reasoning in the incomprehensible inner world of someone else. Instead, I resolved to live. This freed me from the burden of searching for an answer. It just is how it is. From then, I began to look forward to the future, and for joy, from both sides of the lake.
This Spring has been a season of smiles. I celebrated a milestone birthday, traveled with my bike, and went camping a few times. From this joyous spot in my recovery, I can safely share one of the hardest parts of my healing.
I enjoy greeting my friends with a sincere smile. To strangers, I smile almost reflexively as if to share my vibe and openness to the world. In my crash during last year’s ACF week, I face-planted into the asphalt. The landing forever changed my smile.
In my mind, the aftermath of that wreck is clear to see on my signature greeting. Almost the entire right side of my face was bruised. My forehead and cheeks have lingering marks from meeting the road. My upper lip still has raised scars. Some parts of my usually smiling lip have nerve damage. Most people could not see from the wreck, that I lost a chunk of tooth. From the many accounts I heard of my crash, the most jarring was this visual. A sweet and sensitive friend balked at the memory as she recounted watching me sit up from my crash and then spitting a bloodied tooth into my palm. Two other front-row teeth have a permanent crack across them. I no longer eat baguettes.
Leaving Grady Hospital after My Crash
One of the best forms of support I got from the M+M crew was that they connected me to the dentist who was on that very ride. The dentist saw my crash and offered to do my dental work pro bono. For my first visit in early June 2023, Mayuresh drove me an hour, each way, to and from the dentist’s office. There, the good doctor began a series of treatments that would last past my wheelchair days. My first and earliest request was to have my front tooth back for my birthday, June 12th. The dentist put a temporary crown on my front tooth while we waited for a specialized type of facial scanner to develop a long-term dental care plan.
On the Sunday before my birthday, my mother offered to host a birthday party for me at her home. On the morning of that party, I had my friend Brandon drop by for a visit. We were colleagues and friends in the JET program in Japan. In Tokyo, we were avid foodies. Together, we had eaten a world of strange, slimy, and smelling foods. Brandon now lived in Charlotte, NC, and had been in Atlanta for a concert the night before. On his way out of town, he stopped by to bring me breakfast and for a chat.
He showed up to my place with a smorgasbord of breads and pastries from Alon’s Bakery. As we drank the coffee I made, we were excitedly catching up on our travel memories, reverse culture, and friendly gossip. In the tray of treats Brandon brought, I went for an egg and cheese sandwich on a crusty baguette. Initially, my bite was delicious. But one more bite in, I was surprised to find eggshells in my sandwich. Alon’s would not have served such a thing. That place would not be so clumsy. As I tried to isolate the eggshell, I realized it was no eggshell at all. My tongue found my tooth composite between the French bread bites.
Later when Brandon drove me to my birthday party, my tooth stub shined brightly at others. Most people graciously did not comment. When I went back to the dentist, again with the assistance of Mayuresh, I was embarrassed to recount my baguette story. The memory of that Alon’s present is still fresh in my mouth. The chipped tooth even features in several other photos from last year’s birthday shenanigans.
By October, I was well on my path to an excellent recovery and had resumed riding bikes. On a random rainy weeknight, I invited two friends over for dinner. I made us two courses. My friend Taylor brought dessert. Lis, generous and sweet, brought us a long loaf of bread. Somehow, after we all ate my Indian dish, salad, and dessert, we were still feeling peckish.
Toothy Smiles with LIs
Lis got into the fancy bread she brought. I followed her lead and tore a chunk from the side. Unthinkingly, I chewed the crunchy bits. Nearly immediately, I noticed there was something strange in the bread… I ran to peek, privately and in horror, in the bathroom. My stomach turned as I realized made the same mistake twice. Again, I found my gorgeous dental work turned up on my tongue. This was the last time I would eat a baguette. By then, I was able to transport myself to the dentist for a fix. I was mortified to have to explain myself. Graciously, the dentist did not even ask what happened.
A chipped tooth seems just a cosmetic issue. But the repercussions run deep. A chipped tooth and numb lips made for awkward kissing. But this tooth imperfection gnaws deeply in another place. My parents immigrated to Atlanta with two young kids. It was through their hard work, gumption, and sacrifice that my parents provided us with the essential luxuries of an American life. All the kids in middle school were getting braces. Orthodontists are expensive. Yet, my parents began to afford the process of fixing our slightly imperfect teeth. While managing a 24-hour business, my father also made the effort to drive both me and my sister to our multiple appointments. My smile, through painstaking effort and costs, was truly a testament to my parent’s love. It feels difficult now, to reconcile all that familial work, with the current reality. One person’s selfish and careless riding has had the effect of tarnishing so much of my parent’s effort.
Mayuresh: A Maverick!
After my crash last year, when part of my face and upper lips were still numb, I struggled to remember that before I had teeth, I still had a smile. Since I have been young, people have told me they appreciate my grin. It is my most commented-on feature. As a child, my cheeks would gather in big clumps around my smile. My favorite aunts and uncles would take the liberty of squeezing my big cheeks.
As for the rest of my face, only in this past week, late June 2024, I finally was able to see a dermatologist for some scarring. The external marks of the crash may be present for a while. I have come to terms with the changes. Lately, I have been remembering from my grandmother’s example that the beauty of a smile comes from its sincerity. Still, for everybody who has tried to love me through food, I am very grateful. Yet, from now on, I will pass on the hard French bread.
Spring is pregnant with enthusiasm for life. The season of fun and beauty gets warmer, green leaves return, and the world of birds and bees rejoices in long kisses from the sun. It has always been my favorite season of the year. This is the time for blooms, bikes, and backyard parties. Our family celebrated the first day of spring (Navroz) on March 21st with the enthusiasm others might have for Christmas. We are now deep into my preferred holiday season.
This year, spring is particularly packed with feelings. It has been almost one year since I was flung from my bike, during the last Atlanta Cycling Festival (ACF) edition of M+M. In the wheelchair weeks after that accident, I ached to participate in the outdoor joys of spring. With individual strength and the support of this amazing cycling community, I know that I have the love it takes to survive big transitions. Those months refreshed my dogged determination to celebrate life. This year, though, I am intent on doing more than surviving. This season, I feel especially grateful to be alive and am dedicated to thriving with joie de vivre.
I believe we can plant the seeds for our own happiness by creating our own traditions. Our cycling community has some great celebrations. Over the last year, there have also been many changes within the Atlanta cycling community. Nonetheless, we continue the traditions of broadening our horizons and sharing in the community. I, too, am intent to share my zest for life by contributing to the community with some chosen traditions. As my Burning Man sticker says: ̏Holy Shit! We’re Alive.̎ And since we are, I am happy for vigorous celebrations of this fact.
Alive and With Wishes On My Daruma Doll
COMMUNITY TRADITIONS
Hallmark holidays like Mother’s & Father’s Day are coming up. Lately, more interesting to me is the plethora of community cycling opportunities. Last month, RAR and ACF had their annual introductory-level supported bike camping nights. It was on the ACF spring camping trip last year that I first rode the Silver Comet Trail. Through camping out, I met many other Atlanta area cyclists. These bike camping escapades are an exciting way to connect with the pillars of the community!
Of course, just a few days from now, on May 11th begins the highly anticipated week of ACF rides. I had been eager to join several other rides; the intercontinental cocktails ride was at the top of that list. This year’s event page shares the cutest tandem couple I know, the lovely Marissa and Joe! Next week, I hope to join them on a bike ride to a night of dancing!
Within our bike crew, we are beginning to create a tradition of birthday bike rides. Last year, Borith’s Bootleg Beltgrind Birthday Bash was one of my favorite cycling adventures. This year we again rode bikes and got a new batch of stickers to celebrate. (Also a sticker on my water bottle). Logan, the Mayor of Midweek Roll has also celebrated his birthday with a bike-based adventure party, two years in a row. Wednesday last week we had MWR’s 3rd year anniversary celebration. A few days later, some of us were surprised when MWR announced a change in their format. Logan & Jenn have done so much work to provide our community with a safe and volunteer-supported ride. Their community riding guidelines, vibe keeping, and route creating has been pivotal in creating social and safe rolls. I am still processing the news. A seasoned social rider reminded me, that all rides come to an end. Spring, then, offers us this reminder about change. Just as a caterpillar becomes a butterfly, metamorphosis is also part of life.
CREATING NEW TRADITIONS
Thriving intentionally is creating and celebrating my own traditions. I learned this through my practice of the gratitude jar. I like to replicate moments when my heart feels full. One of my favorite ways to do that is to organize creative opportunities for cross-cultural pollination. This spring, I celebrated, so far, through two rides and one party.
Last month’s Indian food ride was the second iteration of sharing my heritage and love for Indian food. I had many helpers in leading the adventure. The first to help last year was Rashad, a cyclist hero in our midst. He led the return journey last year and gave me route support this year. While l love the comfort of some traditions, I am not a slave to the past. This year, instead of Gokul, we went to Honest. It was a much better choice (as Rashad presciently noted). Food came out with less chaos, with fewer errors, and we all got to sit at one giant group table. There was a nice blend of new and familiar faces and many shared dishes. In a sweet surprise, I ended the night with a Spanish karaoke at Estoria with the two Latinas who had joined the ride.
On April 19th, I held a 2nd annual celebration of Bicycle Day. It marks the day Dr. Hoffman discovered LSD’s power. This glorious artsy comic book illustrates the journey Dr. Hoffman took, and about his research along the way. . I wholeheartedly appreciate the work that MAPS is helping bring the power of psychedelics into therapeutic use. Many trip travelers enjoy the learning experience. For me, celebrating Bicycle Day is a reminder to cycle past our egoic horizons. Incidentally, April 19 is also the actual birthday of a local bike maverick and friend, Paulino.
A Paulino Encounter
In my home life, my version of cross-pollination is usually throwing a springtime house party. This year that annual celebration ended up being a housewarming. Over the course of months, I have been intentionally setting up a home of amazing roommates. On a recent Sunday afternoon, we strung together a group of diverse friends. Little do my roommates know, they are subject to a slow indoctrination into cycling.
POLITICAL TRADITION
Of all the things this spring, our version of the American Spring is the biggest beacon of hope. Finally, the American student tradition of protest is catching on at college campuses. I believed during the Trump years that any remaining moral conscience in the country died. However, the student uproar about American involvement in Gaza is a shift in conscience. These student are demanding that their dollars be divested from the murderous Israeli regime.
In Atlanta, a very brave group of students are standing up shake Emory. Alas, this progressive city is in Georgia. The police here have near impunity. During a raid on the peaceful encampments to Stop Cop City, Georgia State Police assassinated a peaceful protestor. Now, the police are throwing around Emory faculty. The suppression of civil liberties in the South is not new. The citizens movement to Stop Cop City is in legal limbo with the City of Atlanta. Beyond that, the State of Georgia is finding itself at the front-line of destroying the American birth rights of free assembly and freedom of speech.
Ultimately, I had a lot of time to ponder this question: For this country, can we have better hopes? A simple start, for example would be a national government that does not starve its public works at the expense of murder and occupation in Gaza. Arriving at that better place is the act of bringing imagination into action with intention. These students are reminding me that we only lack hope. We can create a world intent on thriving in life. We can move beyond just surviving. What changes would you like to see in your world to be? If you doubt that there is another way, read Less is More to grow your radical imagination.
Last year, I led my first group bike ride. About 15 people joined as we went from 97 Estoria to Patel Plaza in Decatur. We had dinner at Gokul Sweets a casual Indian restaurant which represents years of my history in Atlanta. The owners of that restaurant are part of the Ismaili community. The Patel Plaza on Dekalb Industrial Boulevard is just across the Ismaili Jamat Khane (worship hall) which has been an integral part of my family’s weekly routine since 1989.
What is Ismaili? (TL;dr: an eclectic and esoteric sect of the Muslim world which is in some places persecuted, in other places aggrandized.) The name Ismaili itself comes from a schism within a Shia sect of Islam. There is a lot if you want to dive into a unique cultural history. The Ismaili community in Atlanta is largely composed of an immigrant community with roots in India.
Recently, at one of our cycling family dinners, two US-born friends were wondering about what it is like to be a second-generation immigrant. It was intriguing to listen as they recounted secondhand stories from other friends. For me, pinpointing what is distinctly an immigrant experience is hard to separate from my life story at large. Making sense of my individual identity requires context that is at least two-fold. There is the (1) palpable, physical body of representation (of how I may outwardly appear) and the (2) undefined ethereal concepts of who I am, or how I define myself.
Let’s Roll!
Explaining my identity has always been a struggle. I was five years old when my family moved here from Dar-es-Salaam, Tanzania. As my parents were enrolling me into Briar Vista Elementary, an administrator towered over me. She asked me where I was from; in my naivete, I did not understand the question. In her eyes, something suggested I was different. I was too young to appreciate the nuances of our varied history. Years later, I have come to understand my roots as part of a larger diaspora.
I consider my cultural background, just one element of my identity. Like an onion, identity is a series of varied and deep layers. All of this has come to me after lots of reflection. As I grew up, I relished more than anything the identity of a loner. I was comfortable in aloneness and it allowed me to be unknown, unidentified, and ambiguous. It allowed me to be hidden. As an introvert, I enjoyed the mystery. All the while, internally, I faced the contrasts of values and behaviors in my outside world.
I consider my genetic heritage, the diseases and the resilience of my ancestors, as part of who I am. Then there is another layer of history of my family’s migrations and struggle in America. Yet another layer of the onion is the part of identity that you self-subscribe. That is, the choices I make and outward manifestations of my ideas. Ultimately, through travel, I started to unravel my own onion.
Also, Indian food is popular in Tokyo
When you are not part of the dominant culture group, you can go about with the halo of being unknown. Without self-identifying, I can often quietly blend in. For example, in my first solo travel experiences in Latin America, people often spoke to me in Spanish. Perhaps based on my skin tone and features, people assumed I was Latina. My responses in an accented Spanish outed me. As long as I remained quiet, I was a mystery. When I backpacked India, I could often get the local rates at tourist heritage sites because I look Indian. If I did talk, my Hindi was accented and the rates for admission went up by 10-fold.
Especially against the contrast of a foreign culture, I felt the push to answer what identity is anyway. Is it what you call yourself or how others identify you? These big questions do not have easy answers. Jung, for example, holds that we are who we choose to become. There are so many facets to anyone’s identity. There are no finite answers to these questions. In some ways, it is a story that plays in your brain and a constantly rewritten narrative.
To me, the world I grew up in sits apart from the life I have now. Instead of hanging around Brookwood High School for the scene of Americana and football, my sister and I were hauled into Decatur to go to REC (religious education classes) on Friday nights. The students there shared in my skin tone, and had some similar life experiences. They had to navigate multiple cultures and communities in their daily lives. Their parents were also recently arrived immigrants in the Atlanta area reaching towards an American dream. In our Friday evening classes though, there were many reasons I did not feel quite connected. I would ask difficult doctrinal questions to our community volunteer teachers. My classmates got bored of my single-tracked focus. After unsatisfying answers from class, I strolled in the incense laden religious hall marveling at Bollywood inspired worship wear. While I grew up attending Khane events, I have long since disavowed any organized religion. The two worlds, that one, and the one where I live now could not be further apart.
Silly Selfie Smiles
Leading a ride to the Indian part of town was a celebration of several identities I hold. I considered that this community of cyclist is a part of my chosen identity. I took that group to the heart of the neighborhood I know best. For over 30 years, my family drove to this area, at least once a week, on Friday evenings to attend prayers at the Ismaili Jamat Khana. Afterwards, we sometimes picked up groceries or snacks around what is now Patel Plaza. The Indian food ride was a joining of these two worlds. By guiding my cycling friends through the colorful and spicy desi menu, I get the excited chance to share the multiculturalism that I have always embraced. I enjoyed the coming together of these two communities, one that I grew alongside and one that I grew within. On that ride last year, three new faces showed up! One of them has now become a fixture of our cycling community.
I believe when we share, our world gets bigger. I enjoyed the experience enough to do it again. This year, I will host a similar ride. This time, on April 25, we will go to a different restaurant within Patel Plaza. My route planning will be better! The ride is a bit hill-heavy. But we go at a casual pace of 8-10 mph. Dinner in Patel Plaza is deliciously worth it; I provide any menu assistance my crew needs. This ride is a welcoming and tasty introduction for those who are open to knowing and connecting across identity boundaries.
Now, on Friday nights I can choose to congregate with a motley crew of cyclists. The worship I choose is to hang with people of many identities and interests; this is where I feel safe riding around with my blue blue bike. The contrasts and changes in my ideas about identity continue to evolve. At the same time, so does my community. It is so surprising and meaningful to me to have found community within fellow cyclists. On my two wheels, I feel I better embrace the various elements of my identity: playful, undefined, and rebellious.
There is an indescribable pleasure in riding downhill with a group of your friends. I love the sensation of the fast breeze tickling my neck. The cool air feels especially good after a steep, sweaty climb. As my wheels pick up speed, I release an enthusiastic scream of “wheeeeee.” Other riders hoot and holler too. At once, I feel joyful, triumphant, and in sync with my colleagues. Together, we exclaim our enthusiasm on two wheels.
After being wiped out going 30 mph downhill, it was hard to get back to that lighthearted downhill glee. I have had to do a few versions of trauma desensitization. One opportunity for creative healing came from an unexpected ride in Alex Benigno’s trailer.
Long before he became Atlanta’s beloved Magnet Man, Alex Bengino was cycling with the city’s group rides. During the 2023 spring bike camping weekend organized by the Atlanta Cycling Festival, I had a chance to get to know Alex better. I learned that he, also like me, had recently chanced into cycling with these groups. In riding around the city, we found comradery and fun.
Spring Camping with ACF, 2023
On our camping adventure along the Silver Comet Trail, Alex brought his elliptical bike. I was curious about this seat-less, step-through bike. While we were in the comfort of a patch of grass around our campsite, I tried to ride his special bike. It was unwieldy and made me a bit nervous. Still, I was intrigued. Later I learned he used this special type of bike because Alex had some injuries that made the standard bike uncomfortable. The elliptical bike, Alex, assured me, has helped him get in the best shape of his life.
A few weeks later, I had the accident that put me out of cycling for a while. During my wheelchair time, I was driven around Atlanta by my friends. As a passenger, I started watching street traffic differently. I looked a few car lengths ahead to anticipate any prospective collisions in front of me. From my wipeout, I realized I had developed anxiety around roads, crowds, and going downhill.
Shortly after I regained my (car-based) independence, a crew of us cyclists foodies made dinner plans to Chai Pani in Decatur. That Friday afternoon, Alex rolled up with his elliptical bike and a trailer in tow. I was perplexed about the purpose of the trailer. Then, Alex showed us his system of picking up metal debris from the ground with magnets underneath his trailer.
I looked at the sturdy construction of his trailer and cheekily asked if he would give me a ride in the trailer. To my surprise, he was open to the idea. I hopped in and he rode his bike, pulling me in the trailer around the Chai Pani parking lot. His short ride made me cautiously optimistic about my ability to get back to cycling. Later that evening, our dinner crew moved to the Brick Store Pub in Decatur Square. Alex pulled me in his cycle-powered trailer the few blocks there.
I had seen Alex riding with our group rides; he is both sensible and cautious. After our spin in Decatur, I felt moved to ask for a longer ride! His calm demeanor and conscientious riding would be the perfect way for me to get back on the road. We asked our ride organizer at Midweek Roll if it was kosher for me to ride like this for a group trip. Luckily, Midweek Roll created an abbreviated (and modified route) to accommodate my trauma-healing ride! Alex reinforced the trailer (seat). I wore my helmet and was eager to roll with my crew again.
Though I was anxious about not being in control of my own movements, I trusted Alex’s level-headedness and construction skills. I noticed that Alex carefully avoided potholes and rough patches in the road. I tried to keep my cool as we turned corners. As he pulled me along on the back of his elliptical bike, I sensed that I was slowly overcoming the angst of being out in the streets. It felt so good to be spinning around again with the rest of our friends. By the end of the ride, I felt a slow return to the enthusiastic celebration of downhills. It was almost as if I were riding bikes again!
An Alex Powered Adventure
Before he exploded on the scene with his Magnet Man Instagram account, Alex was doing kind things for people. His sense of civic responsibility enriches our community. Through Alex’s help, I was able to overcome the anxiety I felt on the road. I feel lucky to be the beneficiary of his kindness. His concern for others around him inspired his magnetic public service project. Alex is a brilliant example of how we can help make the world a little better, one thoughtful action at a time.
You and 100+ of your cycling friends are rolling up to the intersection of Memorial and Boulevard. Eagerly, you pedal forward. As you get closer, you see Jordan in a bright vest at the crosswalk. Pass the intersection, Monica is calling us to tighten up and keep moving. It is 7:45 pm, and we have just rolled out of Estoria for one of our group rides.
The Atlanta Car Driver from their cage sees a green light on Memorial Drive at Boulevard. They wonder why traffic is not moving. It is 7:45 pm and the rush hour should have died down now. They strain over the steering wheel trying to make sense of what is going on ahead. In the distance, they can make out a lone cyclist wearing a colorful vest in the crosswalk. If the cage windows are rolled down, the driver hears a flurry of mixed musical notes carried on the breeze. A parade of colored lights goes by. Finally, the motorist realizes the entire intersection is filled with bicycles. They simply must wait.
Critical Mass, October 2023
Our social rides can shut down big intersections. We designate a corker to stand and help slow down traffic. It is an immense feeling. Our two-wheeled posse is in charge; if even for just a few minutes. Motorists are sometimes surprised. Some take pictures of us. Some wave. Others get grumpy. Riding in Atlanta in a cycling group here feels a little bit provocative. How did I get here?
I often sat shotgun as my dad drove our golden Volvo station wagon on errands around Atlanta. From the passenger seat, I learned early to look out for the little nuances of driving here. We passed through streets like Briarcliff Road, and Lawrenceville Highway and I noticed how my father paid attention. He was defensive driving to avoid potholes, manage people’s road rage, and keep all the Peachtrees straight.
In the late 90s, my parents moved from DeKalb County into Gwinnett County. Around the time that I was about to start high school in Snellville, I felt like we lived in the boonies. Rarely did I see a pedestrian. I no longer saw the MARTA bus around. I thought there was no way to explore without having a car. Atlanta suburbia is almost certain imprisonment without wheels.
Ladies: Ride On.
When I could get in or borrow a car, it represented a separate space. An identity, a universe, a freedom. The car around that time began to represent an escape. It was my chance to reign on the streets… if I had the money to buy gas. Over time, this shiny car image began to rust. The car went from being the freedom to a restraint.
When I went to law school in Baltimore, I borrowed my mother’s silver Volvo. Sometimes it was a haven and respite from the Inner Harbor. But her car was expensive to maintain, and I always had to worry if it would be OK where I parked it. The first summer of law school, I spent in Los Angeles doing a legal internship. I lived car-free in West Hollywood. Having no car then became its own identity. There, I learned the way Californians greet one another: What Do You Drive?
At none of these times in my past did I ever consider using a bicycle as my main form of transport. It was only when I took a long stint teaching in Japan that I realized the joys of bike riding.
This Lego Bike Does Not Move
Teaching English in Tokyo, within a rigid, hierarchal high school was often difficult. The English language has so many subtleties and nuances. There were times when my work as a foreign language debate coach became spiritually exhausting. In addition to English proficiency, I wanted to instill a sense of global citizenship and responsibility in my students. Between the language barrier, some words stopped making sense. On those days when words did not make sense, and colleagues were hard to find, I simply wanted to run away from my walkable west Tokyo neighborhood.
It was there, in Tokyo that cycling became second nature to me. The city is flat and has great cycling infrastructure. After work, I knew I always had my bike to come back to. It was on days like that I realized the singular joy of riding a bike. Parking is easy, and Google Maps makes it simple to find destinations worth exploring. On beautiful afternoons after class, I would ride along flower-lined roads. On the weekends, I would follow rivers into new neighborhoods. I was living in line with my sense of exploration, and freedom. It was so refreshing to be unencumbered by the bulky violence and expensive responsibility of a car. This free type of transport moved me. Cycling in Japan changed me.
I returned to Atlanta cautiously in 2022. I had not lived full-time in Atlanta since 2012. Changes were everywhere. Most people in the ATL had a car. They also seemed only to notice other cars on the road. Post-pandemic, it seemed that people were comfortable in their oblivion. The dichotomy between Tokyo and Atlanta felt sharp.
Shots on the Shinkansen
Though I never really thought of myself as a cyclist, I had the urge and desire to roll on two wheels. By dumb luck, I chanced upon group riding here in Atlanta. Initially, it was terrifying and exciting. Through these rides, I saw that the Beltline had revived and transformed Atlanta in many ways. The slow congregating of communities and burgeoning of new scenes made for so many new places to explore.
Our social rides are a call to enjoy the day with one another. So many different types of people show up to ride together. For me, there is no better calling than to live up to and take part in. It is a moral imperative to nourish your joy. Riding in Atlanta began as a continuation of a love I discovered when I was in Tokyo. Yet, the riding here, in Atlanta, and as a part of this community has changed me.
Carriage Ride, June 2023
Who is there on the other side? Say hello!
Do you have friends who might appreciate a writer turning into an author? Or maybe someone who appreciates anecdotes from the road?
We all miss M+M! It was a community alive and in action. We looked forward to seeing our friends. A special buzz took over the block around 420 Edgewood Avenue from on Mondays around 7 pm. People of all sorts came together to ride bikes. There were road bikes, gravel bikes, Walmart bikes, vintage bikes, and very snazzy custom builds. Open to any and everyone. The beauty and freedom of it. It was free to join, fun to do, and left us energized for the week. The absence of the M+M ride still stings through us on Mondays.
An M+M Ride
I spent lots of this past winter quietly contemplating the changes over the last year. I gleaned lessons, insights, and stories from the outpouring of community support after that last M+M ride. People who saw my tumble were spooked. I imagine that any of the 400 other people there could have ended up leaving in an ambulance. The experience changed us all. I felt moved by all the care and consideration the community showed. The support I received is a blessing and a gift. I am certain it helped me heal faster.
To share about this transformation, I have decided to write a book on how the cycling community’s response has changed me. I will share portions of it here as I develop more of the manuscript. My working title is Crashing Into Community and it will be ready to publish this summer 2024. A brief introduction to the book is below.
Crashing Into Community
An Atlanta Cycling Story
The last M+M ride took place on Monday, May 15, 2023. It was a gorgeous day to ride. It was the third official day of events in the 2023 Atlanta Cycling Festival. Our friends were there. We were feeling festive. At Georgia Beer Garden, an ACF photographer was taking pictures of the scene of cyclists. I rolled up just in time to photobomb Earl of Earl’s Bike Shop.
I left that ride in an ambulance with two broken limbs and one less tooth among other lacerations. Later, two friends showed up at Grady Trauma Center. Lis brought balms for my spirit. Paulino peeled clementines for me. One group of friends was out looking for my car. Between the GoFundMe Campaign, my Facebook post, and word-of-mouth, many people heard about my accident.
I think that this could have happened to anybody. Going from physically independent to requiring a wheelchair roller is life whiplash. Very few of us would have the emotional and financial resources to tackle such trauma on our own. In the many quiet and indoor hours I had last year, I contemplated jarring “What if?” questions.
Pre-Luna Ride
From so many of my intertwined communities, I had enormous support. Even new friends came out of the woodwork to wish me well. I sense there was a two-way healing process through my newsletter and socials. A recovery-focused mindset and this support network helped me focus on gratitude.
Bike Church, Winter 2023
Within our cycling community, after my spill, I saw many changes. On June 12th, M+M announced that they would no longer have weekly rides. Pre-ride instructions at Bike Church changed. Midweek Roll appended ride guidelines to their sites. The Georgia Beer Garden announced its closure. Earl’s is now closed. Over the ordeal of wheelchair time, physical therapy, and returning to cycling, I feel we all transformed.
Leading a Ride Through Decatur, April 2023
This brush with tragedy renewed my vigor to live my best life. In my forthcoming book, Crashing into Community, I share how community support helped me revisit my definition of health, and moved me closer to my purpose. I will share the journey of healing with a start at why I even got on a bike in Atlanta, a little about falling in love with cycling abroad, and what hopes I have for this community.
The Bakery, 2024
As I write, I invite and welcome feedback on my writing.
What do you want to hear about? How does this sit with you? Thoughts on what you would like me to cover? What part of my recovery and healing journey do you want to know about?
Are there members of the community who would like to follow along with the stories and reflections?
