Five years ago, I spent my New Year’s Eve talking to a stranger. Her name was River and she looked a lot like one: atmospheric blue eyes, long branching limbs, black hair shiny as a stone.
We met sharing a hiker’s dormitory at the Kinloch Lodge—a wilderness retreat near Glenorchy on New Zealand’s South Island. Although she was about twenty years my senior and Australian, we had a deep connection.
Both of us women traveling alone, both of us unconcerned by what the world made of it.
But what tethered us most that night was beyond any words we could’ve shared.
When I asked what brought her there, she mentioned a messy marriage and a great loss, after which she began to cry, the water flowing as unashamedly and earnestly as her namesake.
I could’ve told her then that I, though single, also knew a bit about life-changing loss. I could’ve mentioned my home, the life I once knew, my own father, how all of them were gone. Instead, I spared her the details because I understood that our moment together wasn’t about the past. We bumped into one another on a shared quest not for relief from our suffering, but for clarity about what kind of people we wanted to be.
Outside the lodge with River overlooking the dazzling lake and mountains, the January summer daylight stretched late into the night and I lost track of time. We sat down around eight and suddenly, on the twilight beach below us, people had built a fire and were setting off sparklers, cheering to the new year.
The last thing she said to me was this: To be clear-minded about one’s self at any given time is a feat, one best achieved by long walks through the woods alone.
The next day, I said goodbye to River and we hiked our separate ways. I chose to walk a quiet section of a backpacking route called the Greenstone Track. The daylong journey took me across open meadows, through mossy woods, and beside a river so clear I could see emerald sand shimmering at the bottom. Step after step, I walked off my worries and noticed that the simple act of being present in nature allowed me space to hear my inner voice speak.
I thought about not only who I wanted to be, but about how far I’d come to find myself at that very moment. Recognizing my past and future converging gave me a great sense of peace; the feeling that at last, I was enough.
Whenever the stress of life and the suffering of the world becomes overwhelming, which these days is often, I try to return to this place. I try to listen to the voice that tells me what I need to feel my best, which in turn shows me how I can best serve those around me.
In the new year, I don’t need to become a better version of myself or achieve something others might find impressive. Instead, I want to spend more time in nature. To relish in the present. To be with people that ground me and keep me true to myself. At a time when there’s so much pressure to improve, make more money, or be somehow “better,” maybe the best thing we can do for ourselves is simply turn inward and hear the voice that’s been guiding us, loud and clear, all along.
I don’t know where River is these days, but if I could tell her one thing, I’d want her to know I’m listening.