Lost in Transformation

… A Story of Sobriety, Healing, and the Transformative Power of Travel

This article was also published in Conscious City Guide titled: Get Lost to Find Yourself: The Healing Power of Travel & Sobriety. Read it here.

Transformation. It’s a word that gets thrown around everywhere these days. We even see it in ads for painting houses  - "Transform your home with exceptional exterior painting services" - or products that promise to change your body, mind, or life. “Buy this and you won’t even recognize yourself anymore.”

People are desperate for change, looking for something… anything.. that will help them feel more connected to themselves and the world around them.. But as these advertisements show, transformation is now seen as a commodity. The truth is, transformation is not something you can buy. Transformation doesn’t come from a new coat of paint or a pill you can’t pronounce. It comes from within. It comes from pain. It comes from purpose.

And while I respect the beautiful process of metamorphosis, I promise you, this isn’t going to be another article about a caterpillar turning into a butterfly. I’m skipping that cliché for today.

Instead, I want to introduce you to the spider.

Spiders are often overlooked or even feared, but they are beautiful symbols of resilience and transformation. They weave their intricate webs, only to have them destroyed, and yet they rebuild them, over and over again. That cycle is the kind of transformation I’ve experienced—painful, sometimes destructive, but always leading to growth.

I never kill spiders. I let them stay, spinning their webs in the corners of my home. In many ways, I’ve felt like a spider myself—skilled, talented, but often misunderstood, sometimes even feeling like I don’t belong. Spiders have eight legs, and in many cultures, the number eight symbolizes infinity - a reminder that no matter how many times we’re destroyed, we have infinite potential to rise and grow again.

And I’ve been destroyed more than once—by getting sober, by a near-death experience, and by heartbreak. But in each of these experiences, I’ve found the strength to rebuild, just like the spider weaving its beautiful web once again.

All of these experiences, while extremely painful, and still showcase some residual pain from time to time, taught me the ability to utilize negative experiences as a launching point for personal gain.

A Little Bit About Sobriety

“Getting sober” makes it sound like it was a difficult experience, and overall, it was. But it wasn’t because I was physically dependent on alcohol, it was because I was using alcohol as a way to escape the life that I wasn’t all that excited about.

I started drinking heavily toward the end of high school, and in college,I was blacking out on weekends, and let’s be real, some weeknights too.

I made a lot of mistakes, and, of course, I made an ass out of myself more times than I’d like to admit. People worried about me—rightfully so. But my biggest mistake? That came on a cold and snowy January night when I found out my then-boyfriend had cheated on me. Heartbroken and drunk out of my mind, I made the brilliant decision to drive. Not just tipsy—extremely drunk.

My friends tried to stop me, one even chased me out of my apartment, tackled me in the parking lot, and begged me not to drive my white Kia Sephia (which I paid for in cash, thank you very much). She later told me she chipped her laptop in the process after throwing down her North Face backpack to sprint after me. Even now, I cringe at the thought of it.

But I was determined. I needed to talk to my boyfriend and figure out if what I’d heard was true. Spoiler alert: I didn’t make it to his house. Instead, I got pulled over for rolling through a stop sign —can’t remember the street, but I do remember the shoes. Suede Steve Madden platforms. On a college budget, new shoes were a big deal. Part of me is still relieved I was stopped, because who knows what would’ve happened if I hadn’t been. Not that I was planning to kill the guy or anything, but when your heart is shattered, rational thinking isn’t always top of mind.

The officer who pulled me over asked me to step out of the car, and I’m sure he could smell the Patron shots I’d downed less than an hour before. He asked me to blow, which I did, and then promptly arrested me. When I got in the police car, there was another guy in there. I don’t remember anything about him, not his name, not his face. But I do remember he held my hand. And as someone who was heartbroken, drunk, and under arrest at 3am, it was, in that moment, the kindest thing anyone could’ve done for me.

I was booked into the county jail, and I remember debating whether to call my high school boyfriend. I opted for my mom instead—not because I was scared, but because someone needed to know what was going on. I slept on a steel plate they called a bed and woke up a few hours later. And who was there to pick me up? The same friend who nearly broke her laptop chasing me down, along with our two other best friends. We did what we always did on Sundays: we went to brunch. Except this time, instead of fluffy pancakes or omelets, we got deep-fried wings. And if that’s not the most “college” experience ever, I don’t know what is.

From there, things snowballed. A friend connected me with a lawyer who was both impressed and horrified by how high I blew—something like 0.33, which, if you don’t know, is dangerously high. He told me to “buckle up” because this was going to be a long process. Was his pun intended? A long process, it was. Because I blew so high, I ended up serving two nights in a small county jail several months later. Not exactly the luxury hotels I’m now familiar with but hey, we all start somewhere.

Fun fact: jail is not as glamorous as it looks on TV. You spend a lot of time alone, reading the same books over and over again. I befriended a woman named Maria who had her third DUI and had run from the cops. She got away but later turned herself in. We’re actually friends on Facebook now, and she’s doing great—an incredible artist. There was also Angel, a very pregnant woman who casually informed me she was going to stab me in the jugular. My response? “Do it, bitch.” Who was I? That was long before Orange is the New Black came out, so I had no idea what jail etiquette was. Needless to say, Angel didn’t stab me, and she left me alone after that.

The whole experience brought out this unearthed side of me I didn’t even know I had. I’ve always been a bit fearless (or reckless, depending on who you ask), but I surprised myself with how confident I was in that moment. I’ve frozen in way less intense situations:

I froze when my best friend asked if I was upset that she didn’t choose me as her maid of honor, because yes, I’ve always wanted to be picked.

I froze when my boss asked if I wanted the promotion, unsure how to respond, because obviously, yes.

I froze when a guy I was dating asked me to have sex, simply because I didn’t know how to say no. He took my silence as a yes.

And even in day-to-day interactions, when people ask me, how are you? I freeze.

But when someone threatens me? I come alive.

As strange as it may sound, I actually liked jail. I mean, they feed you, they clothe you, and you don’t have to answer emails or write papers. I didn’t have my phone, and for a brief moment, I could just exist. It’s easy to see why people get stuck in the system—it’s a warped kind of security. But even after that experience, I didn’t stop binge drinking. Not for another seven years, at least.

If you’d asked my friends back then if I had a problem with alcohol, I’m not sure what they would’ve said. Probably something like, “She can hold her liquor.” And I wore that like a badge of honor. I could drink people under the table, and I was good at it.

Until I wasn’t.

The last few days of my drinking era were in between that weird stretch during Christmas and New Years. In just a few days, I managed to fall down a flight of stairs, insult my friend’s husband in the worst way possible, and call 911 because my then-boyfriend thought he was dying after we smoked old weed.

Spoiler alert: he didn’t die. But he did projectile vomit all over my living room. Honestly, it was impressive. I was just glad he didn’t die.

Something else happened during that bender—something that scared me. I took a Xanax while drinking. I didn’t usually mix pills and alcohol—not saying I never did, but it wasn’t my go-to. I had a prescription for Xanax after being diagnosed with GAD a few years earlier, and I mostly took it to sleep off hangovers. A couple of times I took Adderall while drinking, and that never ended well either. Pretty sure I drunk-dialed my mom both of those times and told her that when she dies, I’ll die too. Good times.

On New Year’s Eve, I woke up hungover, popped a Xanax, and instead of going back to bed, I cracked open a bottle of champagne and headed to a brewery. After that, things got blurry. I do remember getting very sick and throwing up for what felt like hours. The next day, my friend’s husband told me he was worried about me. I brushed him off, of course.

That New Year's Day 2019, I woke up surrounded by what looked like 900 Bud Light bottles, The Worst Hangover Ever, and about 12 tons of guilt and shame. I said what I always said: “I’m never drinking again.” But this time, something shifted. It wasn’t just the hangover. It was the weight of it all - the years of mistakes, the shame, the fact that I didn’t even recognize myself anymore. I didn’t know if I believed myself, but for the first time, I wanted to. And somehow, this time it stuck.I know everyone says this, but I really do think it was a God thing.

Thank God. Literally.

I knew a total of 0 people who didn’t drink. And maybe I subconsciously did but they are definitely not registering for me right now. I’m sure I wrote them off.

So I did 30 days. And then 90. And then 6 months and I seriously was like, “what the fuck?”

I could not comprehend but it didn’t matter. I was going to keep going no matter what.

A Near-Death Experience

At 18 months alcohol-free, I made the bold declaration on my Facebook and the response was overwhelming in the best way. Finally, I started connecting with other people who didn’t drink. One of these people invited me to my first plant medicine ceremony. It was the 4th of July, and I was sitting outside a coffee shop with a friend, processing yet another breakup. Towards the end of our conversation, she casually mentioned ayahuasca.  We sat there for another four hours because I had so many questions, and I just knew it was something for me, even though I had never heard of it before.

By the end of the month, I did it.

It was extraordinary. And terrifying.

I won’t spend too much time talking about this, but if you take one thing away from this part of my story, please: stay safe.

Over the next year and a half, I participated in several ceremonies with different medicines.  And the last one? It didn’t end well. I showed up on a Friday and woke up in the hospital on Monday morning, after having a seizure caused by hyponatremia.

The doctors told me I should have died, and honestly, a part of me did. The version of me that needed external validation, that searched for meaning in other people—that person was gone. I couldn’t walk for a week, couldn’t shower for two, and couldn’t work for three. But in those slow, agonizing weeks, I started to see that I had the power to rebuild. Just like the spider. I didn’t need anyone else to save me; I had the strength to weave my own web, stronger this time.

The person I had trusted—the one I put on a pedestal—started out as my teacher and ended up betraying me. But with time, I realized that this person, while still not someone I’d learn from again, is back in the “teacher” category. Not because I want to learn from them, but because I learned for myself.

And what I learned is both depressing and liberating.

We only have ourselves.

Some spiritual teachers might argue that I unconsciously created this experience to teach myself a lesson, and honestly, I believe there’s some truth to that.

I’m just grateful I didn’t die learning it.

Several months later, after lots of therapy, processing, and leaning on my friends, someone suggested I check out a transformational coaching company that helps people with addiction. I sent a cold email, told them a little about my story, they offered me an interview, and started within 3 weeks.

I left my cushy job at a company of 30,000 people for a massive pay cut to join a team of seven. Why not?

I had never felt more confident in myself.

The day I quit my soul-sucking corporate job is the day I fell in love with myself. To this day, it remains one of the best days of my life.

Who needs a wedding when you can quit a job that’s killing your soul?

Joining that small team, working toward big goals—it was a dream job. I’m so grateful for the opportunities, the lessons, and the friendships I made during my year there. Even though, through that job, I went through one of the most painful breakups of my life.

I Can Do It with A Broken Heart

Don’t be fooled, all break ups are painful, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t still licking my wounds from my very first love. But this one felt different. Though, if I’m being honest, they all feel “different” in the beginning.

I wasn’t really looking to date. I had just started that new job after leaving a decade in corporate, and my focus was on learning the ropes and getting to know the team. One of the company events was in Durango, Colorado, and I invited some friends from a local group I’m in to join. One woman, in particular, was totally down. I love people who are down. Turns out, she was from Durango and knew the area well, so getting back there was fun for her. Little did I know, it was her son she introduced me to on that perfect night in August.

Since she was staying with him, she invited me over to his house for dinner. And that first night we met? It was magical. Now, get your mind out of the gutter—there wasn’t even a kiss. But there was a real connection. Because I had no intention of ever dating him, I could be my mouthy, sometimes obnoxious self. And he loved it. Damn it.

We talked about the inventions we wanted to build, our upbringings, and the lessons we had learned. We discussed leadership, consciousness, and transformation. I was there for work, so I actually had to, you know... work. But a few days later, he joined the event, and we had another magical night. And yes, that night, we kissed. In a tent, under the stars.

A few years earlier, I had sworn off long-distance relationships, but before I knew it, he was making plans to visit me—and eventually asked me to be his girlfriend. Full send. It was a whirlwind romance, but without the happily ever after. We spent a few months dating long-distance, but for me, the communication didn’t match the connection. I found myself wanting more of his time and attention, and I could have done a better job asking for it.

A few days after my birthday, after he sent me the most beautiful flowers, I called him. No answer. Later, I got a text from him:

I responded with:

All good. Your honesty is appreciated. Talk soon xo

And then nothing. 

What in the long-distance hell? Did I just get ghosted?

This lasted six months.

I never texted him again. I never called him again. He had told me he’d never hurt me. He said he wanted to meet my parents, cook them dinner as a couple, and travel the world together. He told me he loved me. And as I processed this breakup—without the person who was a part of it—I felt more pain than ever before. Breakups have a funny way of bringing up all the other pain you’ve stuffed down.

In that first month, I have never been more angry in my life. I was furious. Furious because he introduced me to his family, told me he’d build a fence for my dog and a house for me—and furious because I believed him.

Six months later, I was at a friend’s birthday party when her boyfriend’s friend asked me out. I wasn’t sure I was ready, but he seemed like a good guy, and he suggested sushi. Ya girl likes sushi. Of course, THE DAY BEFORE the date with the kind man, I got a text from this person who left me on read. It was a long text. A very long text.

I messaged my then-therapist, and she offered me a free session on the spot because she wanted the tea.

What is it about the universe that makes men somehow sense when you’re finally moving on, and they suddenly swoop in with, "I’ve been thinking about you"? HOW DO WE STOP THIS?

Instead of telling him how angry I was, I wrote a letter. So many letters. I have an entire journal of letters written to him, to the relationship, and to myself.

And I was so confused, as a human race, as a collective, as a society, I kept asking:

• How much can we trust people?

• How can we relate to others without losing ourselves?

And then I thought of a better question to ask myself”...

• How much can I trust people?

• How can I relate to others without losing myself?

I believe everyone has something to teach us, and I’m a forever student. And while these lessons were deeply painful, I was sitting front-row and ready to learn. I wasn’t scared of the pain anymore.

Right after the breakup, I dove headfirst into classes on dysfunctional relationships and started unpacking my own unhealthy patterns. I read what felt like 9,000 books (ok, maybe fewer) and took a two-week road trip to Colorado with my dog. I ended up in front of my late grandparents’ house in Pueblo, crying all the tears my family never got a chance to cry. Generational Trauma is real.

I made serious promises to myself: I would never hurt someone the way I was hurt, and I would never ignore the signs of an unhealthy partner again. I vowed to God, the universe, and whatever’s out there that I’d do everything I could to become a healthy partner. And that’s when I had the most liberating—yet depressing—realization:

I am my only partner.

For someone who craves connection, who almost died chasing it, this hit hard. Growing up as an only child, all I ever wanted was to belong to someone. And now, I know I do. I belong to me.

Before that moment, I was in a dark place. Think Death Valley National Park kind of dark. I had thoughts I wouldn’t admit to my therapist. You know the ones—the kind you don’t dare say out loud. But you know who always shows up in my darkest times? I do. It might take a minute, but I always fucking show up. I know how to take care of myself now. And I know so much more.

And that guy? I have no idea how he’s doing. I hope he’s doing well. After his text, I wrote him one final letter. I agonized over which stamp to use, bought new envelopes, and even went to the library to type it up so he could read every word perfectly. I begged my coach to let me mail it. She said, “Absolutely not.”

So I burned it instead.

And in that moment, as the flames took over the edges of the paper, I realized that this wasn’t just about him. It was about me. It was about my past relationships, and my future ones. Here I was desperate for closure, for understanding, and that wasn’t who I wanted to be anymore. I didn’t want to need his validation or an answer. I wanted to move on without it. And while it was incredibly painful, I did.

Here was the last draft:

Dear Brandon,

I'm writing to share some reflections I've had over time. This is my way of clearing the air, hoping that one day, we will be at peace with each other.

In this letter, I'm sharing what I loved about you, how I was hurt by you, and what I learned through it all. Enjoy.

You are an exceptional person. Incredibly handsome, intellectual, and creative. Shall I keep going? Yes.

I loved the way you washed your hands and how you held mine while you were driving.

I loved how you sat with me on the bathroom floor of the house you built yourself.

I loved how you painted my face with surgical precision. I was so happy to be your canvas.

I loved how you kept your mom's blender and your dad's speakers.

I absolutely loved how you kicked my ass in foosball.

I could go on and on about what I loved about you.

I was hurt by you. Deeply.

It was hurtful that you told me my dreams weren't big enough.

It was hurtful that you rarely invited me to share more about my friends, family, Nelly, or work.

It was hurtful when you told me you called by accident.

It was hurtful when you told me you could give me money but not time.

It was hurtful when you walked ahead of me while we were hiking.

It was hurtful and confusing when I could feel you pulling away in Durango, but you told me you loved me. 

It was hurtful that you came on strong and ended the relationship without a proper goodbye.

Introducing me to your family, asking, "will we have kids?", and then no longer communicating with me, hurt the most.

I'm still hurt by you.

I could go on and on about how hurt I felt.

I learned about love at first sight.

I learned the importance of a spiritual connection.

I learned that I want to grow with someone.

I learned that I've been ignoring deep insecurities that surfaced during our time together.

I learned that I have a pattern of putting all my time and energy into someone before they do the same for me.

I learned about my anxious attachment and fear of abandonment and how I, regrettably, projected those onto you. I am deeply sorry for this.

I could go on and on about what I learned from my time with you. 

It might be nice to process all of this with you someday. 

One last thing that I loved - the first time I met you. I will always remember that night. To me, it was pure magic... and that's what I live for.

Thank you again for this experience. I wish you all the best.

———

On my good days, I genuinely wish him well. On my bad days, I remind myself—with love—that I’m my best partner, and I’m in this for the long haul. And in this life, I’m here to travel, to explore, to keep moving forward—even if I get a little lost along the way.

Transform with Travel

Travel has been important to me since I was a little girl. With my dad in the army, we spent a few years in Hiroshima, Japan, where I was first exposed to different cultures and ways of living. I’m forever grateful that my parents prioritized travel for me at a young age. It’s something I’m incredibly comfortable with and something that’s shaped who I am today.

Like many people, I want to see the world. It’s been my dream for as long as I can remember. Walking through airports makes me feel like anything is possible. Landing in a new country makes me feel like I’ll live forever.

One of the most fascinating things I’ve learned about travel is its origins. Thomas Cook, the father of modern tourism, organized the first-ever trip for people struggling with alcohol. He wanted to remove them from their toxic environments and give them a new experience—one that didn’t offer an easy escape. Cook’s idea resonates with me because it captures the essence of transformation. Travel allows us to step out of our everyday lives, see the world from a fresh perspective, and connect with ourselves and others in ways that truly matter.

As we move through our own transformations—whether it’s sobriety, heartbreak, or any other challenge—we need to remember that the world is full of wonder. We only truly have ourselves, but the webs we weave—through our connections with people, places, and nature—are what give life its meaning. Like the spider, we have infinite potential to rebuild, to grow, and to create beauty from even the most painful experiences.

So, I invite you to take a journey. Not just a physical one, but a journey of transformation - one that’s thoughtfully designed to help you avoid the same pitfalls that once held me back.

Traveling isn’t just about a vacation; it’s an opportunity to explore this beautiful world and connect with people around you. It’s a chance to build new tools for navigating life with clarity and purpose.

Consider taking a trip that creates space for you to grow, where the focus is on connection and self-discovery. Return home stronger, more connected, and ready to face the world with a fresh perspective.

Because, as I’ve learned, when we see the world, the world sees us.

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If you have any questions, need more info, or want to share your experience of sobriety, traveling, or living, send me an email:  hello@michelleplante.com