Awakening in Beijing

Introduction – A Memory Rekindled

I remember the conversation clearly—even now, 17 years later. I was driving through Tallahassee traffic one afternoon after classes at the university, and I called up my parents to propose a wild idea I had and how it was just perfect: I was going to travel to China that summer and do an internship in Beijing for a couple of months, and that would count toward my graduation requirement. On the other end of the line, I was met with a supportive line of questioning and, ultimately, their full support for my plans to travel to China alone that summer—even though it would be my first trip outside of my home country. I was ready.

It wasn’t until 17 years later—very recently, during a casual conversation with my mom—that I learned they were terrified. They didn’t want to hold me back, but they thought I had lost my mind. And yet they knew, equally well, that I would have to go through with it. My mind was already made up.

This was the start of something far bigger than I could have imagined. It wasn’t just a trip to China—it was the opening of the first portal that would both transform me and exhilarate me all at once. It was a rush I would chase for the rest of my days. A crossing of the threshold that was soul-deep and layered across dimensions.

The Call to Go

China was an interesting choice for me. I wasn’t particularly drawn to it for any specific reason other than that it felt like the furthest immersive experience I could possibly have from my own world at the time. I simply wanted to experience another place—another realm—vastly different from my own. I think that younger version of me needed to prove something to herself: If she could travel to and live in China alone, she could do anything she set her heart to. So, she set out on the journey—just to prove that she could.

First Impressions

Arriving in China felt like a dream—a very lucid dream that I slow-walked through for the first several days. I was jet-lagged, with lost luggage, and immediately confronted with a whole new world as soon as I stepped off the plane. I met a kind older man who worked at Hutong School—where I would be taking Mandarin language classes—and he shuttled me to my shared apartment in the center of Beijing, on a street called Dongzhimen Nei Dajie. I was quickly given the apartment tour and instructions, and then we walked to the local police station so I could register as a foreigner.

I found out during that first week that I had arrived during a holiday in China, so I did what any true adventurer would do: I set out to get lost.

I remember thinking, this must be what it feels like to kids on their first Disney adventure. It was a whole new world. In that first week, I discovered that getting lost for a few hours and then hopping in a taxi back home was my new favorite hobby. I learned that street food was sketchy but delicious, that newspapers were posted on public street signs, and that if you got up early enough, you could catch many folks in their pajamas reading the news and chatting on the sidewalks. I also quickly learned that a girl with light hair and light eyes was something of an oddity—and would be stared at.

Over time, I traveled with others I met through the language school. We explored Sanya in the south of China, and we ventured to tiny villages so far removed from the city that the children had never seen a face as “long” as mine. Each weekend introduced me to the majestic, lesser-seen side of China—the part full of ancient beauty and soul-stirring wonder.

Key Moments of the Journey

My language classes were well worth the effort. I was able to navigate simple conversations with locals, taxi drivers, restaurant staff, and market vendors.

One of my favorite places to practice Mandarin was a local clothing market. I had a couple of dresses in mind that I wanted made, and after presenting my drawings, they took my measurements and helped me select fabrics. I returned almost every other day—ostensibly to check on the dresses, but really to chat with the vendors and immerse myself in the rhythm of the market.

One day, a friend I had made there asked me if I’d return that afternoon—her boss was coming, and they needed people to appear in a photoshoot for his new restaurant. This was in May, just before the 2008 Beijing Summer Olympics. There was a huge effort across the city to clean up, build anew, and promote businesses for the influx of foreigners. And apparently, I was being asked to be part of it.

Now, looking back—especially through the lens of a mother—I cringe at the thought of younger me being recruited by a market acquaintance, hopping into a stranger’s car, going to an unknown location, with no one knowing where I was…all to do a photoshoot. It sounds like the beginning of a bad horror film. But I am, and always have been, protected in this lifetime. My spirit team has had their work cut out for them. I thank them for their diligence.

Another significant memory of my time in China was the time I truly thought I might not make it out of China alive. I visited an older part of the Great Wall with my Dutch roommate, Anouk—who, impressively, always wore heels, even to the Great Wall. We decided to take the sky rail for a better view. The cart was like a ski lift: a seat with a thin bar in front and a slightly thicker rail connecting us to the overhead cable. Halfway through, the wind began to howl. Our cart swayed violently. The ride paused midair. We sat in silence, both too afraid to name the obvious. I remember looking past Anouk’s heels and thinking, At least it would be quick—a sure death on those rocks. No suffering.

Somehow, we made it out of that pickle—quietly thankful and infinitely more cautious.

On a lighter note, a fond memory of mine from Beijing was from a cultural gathering I attended. Every once in a while, students at the language school would host a “Culture Night”—an evening of food, drinks, and storytelling from our diverse backgrounds. I still don’t know what compelled me to represent the United States by bringing a pan of Beanie Weenies, but I did. And, to no one’s surprise, it was a huge hit. To this day, that still makes me laugh.

Inner Shifts

By the end of my journey in China, I was addicted to the thrill of discovery. I wasn’t ready to let it go. I cried when I had to leave. I cried when I got home. I didn’t cry because it was hard or because I missed my life back home—I cried because something deep inside me had awakened. I realized then that I would have to let go of everything I had built back home in order to follow whatever it was that stirred my soul while I wandered the streets of Beijing.

China was a wake-up call. A moment of destiny wrapped in fearless, soul-led adventure. A reminder to follow the inner guide. Not long after, I was already booked for my next adventure: a summer studying and traveling in Costa Rica.

Reflections from Now

My life did, indeed, shift completely as a result of walking through the threshold that was China—a portal disguised as a plane ticket. It was an opening, an invitation, a remembrance of my deeper mission here. China was the beginning of the weaving of the golden thread that guides my path through this realm.

Each place I visit, I weave this golden thread—integrating its offerings, its lessons, its sacredness. As the Traveling Mystic I have become, I honor my first true calling—China, the journey that jolted me awake.

What journey have you taken that stirred your soul?

Every soul has its awakening moment.

Where did yours begin?