Page 20 of Christmas Crisis
For a long while, I’d been toying with the idea of being more insistent that the true me wasn’t the outdoorsy, thrill-seeking person my friends assumed I was. Even if it upset them or changed their opinion of me. Verbalizing my frustration about that to Leo over Christmas had intensified the urge.
As I slipped cases on the new pillows I’d bought for the sofa bed, I realized how much I was looking forward to being the Miranda only Leo knew for the next few days. Adventurous Miranda could sit the heck down for a minute.
In fairness, it was my fault I’d fallen into the habit of hiding my authentic self.
When I arrived at college my freshman year, I immediately fell in with a friend group of exuberant, kind-hearted students who viewed Southern California as a playground for all things active.
I went with it, telling myself I’d purposely chosen a college far from home to face new challenges and make discoveries. And what was more challenging than being around folks who spoke casually about the hedonistic joys of zip-lining through clouds or conquering class 5 rapids? Excited to be so readily adopted into a tribe, I didn’t put a lot of thought into whether it was the right fit. Instead, I leaned into that identity.
To the rest of the student body, our group was fun and chill—“hippies” and “granolas.” We were the good-vibe people who got invited to every party, but offended no one when we didn’t show up. It was easy.
It helped that my mom and sisters seemed proud. They’d been worried I’d use my newfound freedom and distance from hometo experiment with more nefarious activities, so my stories about running a Halloween 5k in a vampire costume or falling off a surfboard fifteen times before finally being able to stand amused them. I reveled in their approval, in being seen as strong and capable, and not just the happy baby of the family.
Also, I wasn’t a total noob. Growing up, I’d engaged in plenty of outdoor activities. Hiking and river tubing in the summer and snowshoeing in the winter were part of the Coleman Creek culture. But my new friends introduced me to experiences on a whole new level. Canoeing and paddleboarding. Off-trail skiing. Multiday rafting expeditions. It was exciting and novel enough that I could ignore the hollowness of my connection to them. I wanted deeper friendships, but I didn’t click easily with people in that way. Superficial good times I could do. The consequential stuff rarely materialized.
At least no one seemed to find meobjectionable. I leaned into that. If they couldn’t truly know me, at least they could like me.
But as the months and years passed, I wearied of never being fully myself, unable to escape the feeling that I was putting on a performance.
A few years into earning my bachelor’s, I finally admitted to myself that my tendency togo along to get alongwasn’t serving me. Despite being surrounded by people, I was lonely. Wanting to see what the rest of the world had to offer, I strategized ways to make more friends. I still wanted to spend time with my current group, but I’d done enough kayaking for a lifetime. My future would include more lazy couch days, nights out dancing, and binge-watching trash TV.
At least, that was my plan.
Then my mom got diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease.
She insisted I stay in school and continue my activities, telling me how happy my “adventure tales” made her. Withouthesitation, I put all thoughts of changing things on the back burner. I kept having adventures. Fresh stories for her.
My activities and travels became grander. My tales more epic.
Mountain climbing in South America and Cambodia. Six weeks of volunteer tourism building homes in Mexico, cliff diving on the side. A safari in Kenya and beach days in Croatia, taking odd jobs to fund my excursions.
But even as Momoohedandaahedover photos of me and my friends hiking through jungles in Costa Rica, I didn’t mention her slow deterioration to a single one of them.
And when she died a year and a half ago, they said, “I’m sorry,” but none of them came home with me to attend the funeral.
Before and especially during the years of my mom’s illness, my Instagram page provided an outlet for the artificial existence I’d created for myself. It was still shallow, but I had control of the narrative. I invented the persona there. The part I enjoyed most was thinking of it as a business venture—an application of the skills I learned in my classes.
Building up @theadventurousmiranda as a brand sparked my imagination. Trying to game the platform’s algorithm, dreaming up reels that gained me hundreds of new followers. I received DMs from start-ups who thought I’d be perfect to hawk their protein powder or hiking boot inserts. I never tried to make money off my page, but its success helped me feel confident in that marketing skill set, something I’d need to sell myself in a crowded job market after graduation.
After Leo and I began talking, I explained the evolution of the character I’d built online to him, emphasizing that she was far from the real me.
“I sort of got that, Panda,” he’d said. “From our first conversation at Christmas. It’s okay to want to manage how people perceive you as you change and grow, especially when you’re in college.”
“Did you?”
He scoffed. “Definitely.”
“So what were you like back then? Was it hard navigating around all the dinosaurs?”
“Watch it.” He laughed. “I was your basic know-it-all little shit. I’d been an athlete in high school and played rec sports during college. Did the frat thing. My bachelor’s is in communications, which has been surprisingly helpful in the construction business.” His tone sobered. “I had a lot to figure out about myself in my early twenties. Same as anybody.”
I didn’t press him to elaborate, knowing he’d tell me when he was ready.
Since my mom died, I’d been pulling away more deliberately from my friends, finding excuses not to hang out. The result of six years spent in one another’s orbits had turned my group into running buddies and movie dates, but not people I implicitly trusted. Not people I revealed myself to. The more I got to know Leo, the more I understood the difference.
The shift was already beginning. After finally earning my undergraduate degree—traveling had necessitated stretching it out to six years—I’d rented my own apartment for graduate school. Thankfully, my mom left us a nice inheritance, giving me the flexibility to navigate Los Angeles’s insane rental market. After downloading some apps, I’d gone on a few first dates and friend dates. I hadn’t experienced an instant connection with anyone the way I had with Leo, but making the effort felt like progress.
I looked forward to completing my MBA, holding a stable nine-to-five, and establishing myself on a more traditional path. While I’d still take part in outdoor activities as hobbies, I wouldn’t allow anyone to assume it was my entire identity ever again.
