I spent two years, traveling across the United States, in a converted school bus I called Eula- Mae. During a Civil Rights Movement. I couldn’t have left America quick enough.

If you followed my previous blog, NamasteUSA, then you remember my post Dear White People and the stories of being cornered by racist White cops in the desert of Utah or being pinned in by pick up trucks in Michigan. I was done.

When I told people that I was heading to Curacao, most had never heard of it and those who had seemed utterly confused that I wasn’t choosing a more popular place.

Leaving a narcissist is not for the faint of heart. Before you even get to the place where you’re ready to leave, you have to first come to grips with the fact that you’ve been abused. Gaslit and manipulated and that most of your relationship was a lie.

I didn’t need “popular”. I needed solitude and peace. I figured a place nicknamed “The Healing Island” was a sure bet. But it was more than that. Before my mother died, she visited Curacao. She left behind pictures of her tine there that I had carried with me for years. A year before I left him, I started to feel a pull. I knew that I needed to travel there. I knew that something was waiting for me there.

I thought that I would relocate with him. But when we ended, my mother spoke to me in a dream. “It was meant for you alone… ” “GO!”

And so I did what I usually did when my life hit a speed bump and my mama started bossing me around from heaven. I called Lisa Ann. I’ve called on this intuitive for years and I trust her. I didn’t have to say anything. She spoke to me about my crumbling marriage. She saw me traveling over water. And she told me about my home there. My mother, who joined our sessions often, kept showing her pink flamingos and me looking out of a window into what looked like an enormous bird’s next….. Welp! As long as she saw that I was safe, I was good.

And so I booked my flight. Got rid of everything that didn’t fit into 1 suitcase. Secured an Airbnb for 3 months. Turned my super anxious Pitbull into a Service Dog online (hank God she’s cute cause it’s not believable) and I hopped on a very long flight from Palm Beach to the island of Curacao.

I was picked up by my Airbnb host at the airport. Driven up a long dirt road where I arrived on an old family farm behind wrought-iron gates. Greeted with a cold beer and showed to my tiny little yellow guesthouse. After pleasantries I closed the door. Sat on the floor, held my exhausted dog and sobbed.

I had made it….

Later that day, I actually took the time to take in where I was. My mother had kept a tiny painting in her bedroom. It was packed in a box being kept at my bestie’s house. But I knew it well. It’s of a woman, lounging in a chair, in front of a tiny yellow home. Surrounded by large plants and a chicken is making her way by in a small corner of the gold frame…

I stood there stunned. Somehow I was wearing the dress of the woman in the painting. My new tiny yellow house was surrounded by huge Aloe trees and the chickens were slowly making their way in and around the foliage singing their dusk lullabies.

Oh, and did I mention? My home was completely covered in large trees with birds nestled in and all of the pillows inside had images of pink flamingos.

You see our Ancestors are always making the road ready for us before we arrive…

I had listened. I had followed. And now it was time to heal.