If you have experienced these things you are more resilient than most.

Secret #2 Grief 

The Weight of a Secret: My European Odyssey Through Grief, Shame, and Self-Discovery

There are moments in life when the ground beneath you crumbles, leaving you freefalling into an abyss of despair. It's in these moments of rock bottom that you unearth a profound truth about yourself: you are far stronger than your worst moment. Sometimes, the breakdown isn't an ending, but the fierce, necessary beginning of a breakthrough. For me, that breakdown began with a profound and secret grief.

My own descent began with the relinquishment of my daughter, a decision that would forever imprint itself upon my soul. Grief, I would soon learn, is one of life’s most unforgiving yet transformative teachers. 

Whether it’s the death of a loved one, the shattering of a cherished relationship, or the quiet demise of a long-held dream, moving through it changes you on a cellular level. I was about to discover what it meant to feel as though I’d lost everything, even while carrying a secret burden of shame that felt heavier than any physical weight.

With my heart heavy and my head bowed in a shame I couldn't yet articulate, I left my sister’s home in Oregon. Sacramento, my hometown, felt foreign and unwelcoming. I returned to a different school, a place where no one knew my name, and began to bury the secret of my daughter, a secret that would remain entombed within me for the next 26 years. 

I drifted through my days, a ghost in my own life, unfocused and untethered. The halls blurred, voices distant. My grades, usually a source of pride, now reflected the quiet chaos within. I felt utterly adrift, a vessel without a rudder, propelled only by a deep, gnawing need to escape.

 I knew I needed to breathe a different air, to place miles, oceans even, between myself and the suffocating weight of my secret. Europe, with its ancient allure and promise of discovery, had always beckoned, a shimmering mirage of freedom.

So, with a desperate resolve, I liquidated my past. My beautiful collection of exotic clothing and jewelry, items I had lovingly amassed through my passion for fashion, were meticulously sold, piece by precious piece. Each sale was a small chipping away at the girl I had been, a tangible exchange of materialism for the intangible promise of escape. With the accumulated funds, and the bare necessities tucked into a well-worn backpack, I secured a one-way ticket on People's Express, the no-frills airline of its day.

 As I settled into the cramped seat, the drone of the engines was a low hum of anticipation and trepidation. I was running, not just from Sacramento, but from myself, a futile endeavor as I soon realized that wherever I went, my grief, and my secret, were meticulously packed within my soul. 

That initial awe of the journey was tinged with the stark concern of traveling alone, a young woman venturing into the unknown, carrying a burden invisible to all but herself.

On the plane, a serendipitous encounter with a friend from school sparked an unexpected alliance, a small comfort in the vastness of my solitary mission. 

We decided to embark on this journey together, two young women stepping into the vibrant unknown. Our landing in London in 1969 was like stepping into a technicolor dream. 

The city pulsed with an electrifying, free-spirited energy. Carnaby Street was a kaleidoscope of vibrant fashion – bell bottoms, psychedelic prints, and long, flowing hair. The air hummed with the sounds of rock and roll drifting from open doorways, mingling with the earthy scent of patchouli. 

London truly was a hippie paradise, a sprawling canvas of artistic expression and rebellion, a stark contrast to the quiet conservatism I had left behind. I felt a tentative spark of awe at this vibrant new world, a fleeting sense of liberation from my internal shackles.

From London, we took the ferry across the pond to Amsterdam. Amsterdam in '69 was a city of canals and crooked houses, but also of blossoming counter-culture. The scent of cannabis mingled with the sweet aroma of stroopwafels. Musicians played impromptu concerts in public squares, and colorful houseboats bobbed gently on the canals.

 It felt less frantic than London, with a gentler, more laid-back vibe, inviting contemplation. We meandered through the Jordaan district, captivated by the narrow streets and quirky shops, feeling the soft pull of a world far removed from anything I had ever known.

From there, we ventured deeper into Germany. In Frankfurt, our nomadic spirit truly took hold: we bought a van and meticulously outfitted it for camping, transforming it into our rolling sanctuary. This was true freedom, the ability to wake up wherever the road took us, to sleep under a canopy of stars. We traversed Germany, through the industrial heart of Frankfurt and the divided city of Berlin.

 Berlin, still scarred by its wartime past, yet throbbing with a defiant energy, was a sobering contrast to the carefree spirit of London and Amsterdam. The Wall loomed, a stark symbol of division, a powerful reminder of how human decisions could create profound and lasting rifts. It resonated deeply with my own hidden divisions.

Then, we turned west to France. Paris, the city of light, welcomed us with its iconic grandeur. The Eiffel Tower pierced the sky, the Seine flowed serenely, and the cafes buzzed with intellectual fervor. We explored the Latin Quarter, browsed the bookstores along the Left Bank, and lingered over strong coffee and flaky croissants.

 Here, the sheer beauty of the architecture and the palpable history evoked a profound sense of awe. The sophistication of Parisian fashion, even amidst the burgeoning hippie trends, offered a glimpse into a different kind of artistry. In Paris, our journey expanded: we met three other fellow travelers with their own van, forming a small caravan. Together, we wound our way south from Paris, through the sun-drenched landscapes of Southern France, past endless vineyards and ancient villages, absorbing the rustic charm.

Our journey continued into the heart of Spain. Madrid welcomed us with its bustling plazas and fiery flamenco. The Prado Museum offered a quiet reprieve, a chance to lose myself in the masterpieces of Goya and Velázquez. The vibrant energy of the city was intoxicating, a stark contrast to the quiet contemplation I often sought.

 From Madrid, we pressed on to the southern coast, and finally, to the ethereal island of Majorca, a true hippie’s dream at the time. Majorca was a paradise of sun-drenched beaches, azure waters, and secluded coves. Life moved at a slower, more languid pace. We spent our days swimming, sunbathing, and simply existing in the moment, a blissful escape from the constant movement of the mainland.

 The island air was thick with the scent of salt and wildflowers, and the nights were alive with the sound of distant guitars and laughter. It was a place where, for a time, I could almost forget the weight I carried.

Our collective journey, however, began to fray as we left Spain for Italy.

 By the time we reached Florence, the strain of constant companionship had taken its toll, and our group fractured. While there was a fleeting sadness at the parting, there was also a curious sense of relief. The constant negotiation, the differing desires for exploration, had become subtly draining.

 Florence itself was a breathtaking tableau of Renaissance art and architecture. The Duomo dominated the skyline, a testament to human ingenuity. I wandered through the Uffizi Gallery, feeling dwarfed by the sheer scale of beauty, a profound sense of awe washing over me. 

But my solitude here also brought back the familiar gnawing concern of traveling alone, a young woman vulnerable in an unfamiliar city, yet a growing sense of self-reliance began to emerge. I was learning to trust my instincts, to navigate unfamiliar streets and situations with a quiet confidence I hadn't known I possessed.

From Florence, I hitchhiked south, eventually finding refuge in a hostel in Rome. The Eternal City, with its layers of history, felt immense and overwhelming. The Colosseum, the Pantheon, the Forum—each landmark whispered tales of empires past. I walked for hours, simply absorbing the grandeur, the sheer weight of centuries of human endeavor. Here, fate intervened again, introducing me to three kindred spirits traveling in a VW Bug. We instantly clicked, a shared thirst for adventure uniting us. We set off together for southern Italy, then by ferry to the enchanting island of Corfu. A week there, swimming in its emerald waters and exploring its ancient ruins, provided a much-needed respite.

Then it was on to Greece, to Athens, a city where ancient wonders met modern life. The Acropolis, crowned by the Parthenon, stood majestic against the sky, a symbol of human aspiration and resilience. I spent hours there, contemplating the enduring legacy of a civilization that had shaped so much of the world.

 From Athens, we boarded a ship that would carry us to several Greek islands before depositing us in Mykonos.

Mykonos in 1969 was a revelation, a pristine jewel in the Aegean. It was not yet the bustling tourist hub it is today; instead, it retained a raw, authentic charm. The iconic whitewashed buildings with their vibrant blue trim clung to the hillsides, creating a dizzying, beautiful maze of narrow cobblestone streets. Bougainvillea cascaded over walls, explosions of fuchsia and crimson against the stark white. 

The air hummed with a different rhythm – the distant bleating of goats, the lapping of waves, the occasional murmur of Greek voices. There were very few cars, only donkeys for transport, and the scent of salt and wild herbs permeated everything. The beaches were stretches of golden sand, often deserted, save for a few stray sunbathers. 

We spent our days exploring hidden coves, swimming in the crystal-clear waters, and soaking in the effortless beauty. The nights were alive, not with pounding club music, but with the gentle strumming of guitars, the laughter of newfound friends, and the quiet clinking of glasses in small, candlelit tavernas. It felt like a secret paradise, a place untouched by the outside world, a place where, for the first time in a long time, I felt a flicker of genuine lightness.

My companions stayed with me for a couple of weeks, but I found myself captivated by Mykonos, by its slow pace, its understated beauty, and, most of all, by a handsome Greek fisherman I had met. I was utterly enamored, a heady mix of infatuation and the desire for a connection that felt profound after so much internal isolation. 

Mykonos became my home for the next six months. We danced for the cruise ships—he, a mesmerizing solo Greek dancer, and we, as a duo, performing traditional Greek dances that told stories of love and loss. I also found work painting houses and floors, earning enough to sustain myself in this idyllic setting. The feeling of discovery was palpable – not just of a new culture and a different way of life, but of a quiet strength within myself, an ability to adapt and thrive.

But as the tourist season waned and summer faded, the island transformed. The vibrancy of the tourist season receded, and Mykonos reverted to its medieval roots, its customs and traditions reasserting themselves with a sudden, almost suffocating intensity. For a young hippie girl from California, used to boundless freedom, this shift felt like a cage closing in. 

The close-knit community became insular, its expectations rigid. My fisherman, once so charming and attentive, became fiercely jealous and difficult, his possessiveness growing with each passing day. A stifling sense of control replaced the carefree spirit of Mykonos, and after five months, I knew, with a growing sense of urgency, that I had to leave. 

The concern of traveling alone had returned, amplified by the desperate need for escape.

It took a month to secure passage on a ship, battling against relentless bad weather that made departures impossible. During this anxious wait, I connected with another woman trapped in a similar predicament with her Greek boyfriend. 

We became unlikely allies, two fugitives planning our escape, clinging to each other for support and courage. We finally caught a train in Athens, a journey that led us through Yugoslavia during the tumultuous period of the Communist takeover. The train was a cage; we couldn't disembark, the political unrest making it too dangerous. Without money for berths, we sat upright for the entire week or ten days it took to traverse Yugoslavia (now Croatia), through the serene beauty of Switzerland, and finally, to Luxembourg, People's Express's main hub. 

The train ride was a blur of discomfort and mounting anticipation, punctuated by the occasional glimpse of a stark, unfamiliar landscape. From there, we boarded a flight to New York City, and my next adventure awaited, a new chapter in the ongoing saga of my grief, my resilience, and my enduring quest for self.

To be continued 

New York to California