There are thirty of us seated in a large living room with modern art and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Santa Fe horizon. The living room belongs to Chip Conley, Founder of Modern Elder Academy (MEA), New York Times bestselling author, and former CEO of AirBnB. He’s a hospitality guru, and so it’s only appropriate he’s hosting us so intimately in his home. Although, this was never the plan. The grand opening of the MEA Santa Fe ranch retreat center was supposed to be underway, but with a few unexpected building inspection hiccups, he was quick to improvise. Dozens of trailers were brought in adorned with luxurious hotel-grade bedding and nightstand chocolates creating an impromptu trailer park for our five-night stay. I knew our experience would be a little different, but just as special, if not more.  

This four-square-mile ranch was largely undisturbed. Dirt roads connected one place to the other and newly marked walking trails were flagged with grass stakes. It was peaceful and quiet. During the day, bright white clouds hung overhead, and tumbleweed gently brushed along the Earth’s naked ground.

Our cohort, later named The New Frantiers, flew in from all over the country. Our ages ranged from 38 to 75. I’m often the youngest and have learned to love the “old soul” in me. Our specific week was co-hosted by both Chip Conley and Michael Franti, “Finding Rhythm in Midlife.” Ted and I learned about this retreat initially through our shared love for Michael Franti. His music has been an anchor in our marriage and family life for many years. Have you ever loved a musician so much that you feel as if you know them?

By day three, it was obvious this retreat was intended to be every bit uncomfortable as it was rejuvenating. I never knew what to expect, and a part of me thrived in that. The deeper the connection, the happier I am. In a room full of strangers, we quickly became trusted keepers of our ‘third vault’ thoughts and feelings. After our morning meditation and yoga practice, we began with circle time in small groups where we passed around a dried-out Cholla cactus branch indicating our turn to speak. My head and my heart bounced around like a couple of pinballs in an arcade machine. I wiped tears away while belly laughing moments later. I cried out of gratitude, sorrow, and empathy for others. Laughter became a natural medicine of reset and release. Every workshop exercise carried some form of awkward vulnerability that ultimately left us lighter.

Later that afternoon, this all proved to be true once again. Michael was sitting at the front of the circle. This time, the circle included everyone, and we were all seated while he sat in a chair with an empty seat to his right. We’re all gathered, and casually, as if it’s normal that we’re calling him “Michael” instead of his full name. It’s not. None of this is normal. We take up space wherever we can to squeeze in close. Michael (still weird) has his guitar sitting in one hand with a boxing glove in another. He explains that we’re going to find our voice today. He tells us his own story about finding his singing voice, and through singing we’ll be doing the exact same thing today. The point wasn’t to become quality singers, but rather to overcome a fear and tell our story through singing which is about as nerve-wracking and vomit-inducing as jumping out of an airplane without a parachute. Maybe worse. Everyone had an internal “oh shit” moment. Singing? Out loud? By ourselves? With Michael? One by one, the boxing glove was blindly tossed. As it bounced from one person to the next, people were quick to offload the glove and adamantly declare it didn’t touch them. 

Each person walked up with hesitation likely having an out-of-body experience. Michael had them close their eyes and simply hum to the note he played. The hum was soft, trembling, and barely audible. Like a turtle peering outside of its shell and quick to hide from the world wishing for it all to go away. For those who struggled to come out of their own shell, we hummed alongside them encouraging them to find their voice. Slowly but surely, a sense of comfort was found. We rallied and clapped with each solo hum and were quick to take a backseat to let them have the stage in this seated circle. Tears often trickled down each person’s face. It was layers of pain surfacing and the active embarrassment being swallowed whole. By the end of each person’s song, body language had shifted. Confidence was rising. The relief of it being over unleashed something new in each person.  

I pictured myself up there singing my solo. None of it fed my ego positively, but I’ve been oddly conditioned to recognize what I’m afraid of and blindly surrender. With each backward toss, I wondered, Is this my time? I was nervous but ready.

In the few minutes each person sat up front and sang their life story, there was a transformation of ease in their hum. Michael continued to lock eyes with each person with a smile and probing for more. “Nice! Keep going,” he’d say. He was so gentle and kind.

Several people had come and gone and successfully told their story in their best singing voice. Ted included. He was the token masculine and stoic prize that everyone wanted to crack open. He sat next to Michael and began to sing in front of all of us. I was so proud. He was funny but vulnerable. I didn’t want the moment to end. I recorded the song and savored every word he sang.

 The glove never got close to me. Not even a little bit. The moment had passed me by and there was a part of me that wished otherwise. Although, perhaps the boxing glove landed in Ted’s lap versus mine because relishing his experience created more liberation and connection than my own. I don’t know.

What I found most interesting is how many people held on to this story of “I can’t sing” which created so much more fear and anxiety of doing so. Most often, these stories were created at a young age and through a single, fleeting moment. It was a Chorus teacher, a third-grade classmate, or even a Husband shushing a new mom from singing lullabies to her newborn. These quiet exchanges confirmed, “You can’t sing” which became stories these men and women latched on to for decades. DECADES. As a result, they stopped singing.

We’re all subject to these quiet exchanges. Much of who we are today is a result of the subtle interactions that hurt our feelings years ago. We latched on. We believe it. We carried these stories to create our identities and we capped our own potential. What if we kept singing OUT LOUD regardless of people’s opinions? Would it have helped us navigate grief better? Would we experience more joy? Would it have led to new experiences, opportunities, and people in our lives?

How often have you thought:

They are probably too busy for me.

I’m not very smart.

I’m not good enough.

I’m too loud.

People only find me interesting because…

I don’t deserve this.

I’m too young.

I’m too old.

I’m not qualified.

I can’t do that.

I’m not an athlete.

I read too slow.

The limitations we experience are within us. We remind ourselves daily of our limitations, and it’s often without any awareness. Our habitual actions reinforce our thoughts. We shy away from doing the hard things because we’ve already convinced ourselves “we can’t.” We see hurdles that others do not. We nourish and feed these hurdles because it’s safe. We become the story collectors of who we are by default, not by intentional creation. Throughout this process, we lose our own sense of self and we merely drift through life.

After having a couple of weeks to reflect on this surreal experience, I understand better that finding your rhythm in midlife isn’t about managing a crisis, but about authentically owning who you are and the voice within us that often gets buried. To do this, we must strip away the stories, burdens, and masks that no longer serve us. When we can fully show up raw and uninhibited, new opportunities are created.

I’m an active work in progress stripping away my own stories, and set of beliefs that have once held me back. It’s a process…and a never-ending one. Breaking free of these beliefs and re-writing my own narrative has been the most liberating experience of all. Join me.

Thank you Chip, Michael, and the entire New Frantiers cohort for bringing the double rainbows and memories that will last a lifetime. xo