What happens when you find yourself in crisis
On the topic of burning man and how crisis alchemizes a new way of being.
At this point, you’ve probably seen what happened at Burning Man. Or should I say, Mud Man. And, while the news did what it does (sensationalize what happened), the situation was serious.
No, they didn’t have an ebola outbreak (I don’t think), but one man was reported dead and a little over 70,000 people were stranded in the middle of the desert, after a week of partying, without proper infrastructure, running low on food and literally stuck (clay + water = deep mud), and the gates to enter and exit were closed.
As someone who’s been to Burning Man several times, I can say for the most part that if there was ever going to be a community of people who needed to navigate a crisis, this is the one.
I mean, they’ve already willingly decided to go spend weeks in a desert, build a city from scratch, and use Porta Potties. That’s strength.
While it’s true that the community has become a lot more privileged and bougie over the years (some camps charge upwards of $50k per person to provide a 5-star experience), just like in society, they make up 10%.
I first heard what was going on while on my morning walk from friends. After hearing that while emotions were running high, they were all ok, I was able to relax. I then found myself thinking back to my first burn almost ten years ago — the one that taught me one of the most important lessons of my life: as long as I am connected to myself, I will never be lonely.
Back then, I was pretty deep in my text book New York City lifestyle with priorities 1, 2 and 3 all being the same for me: advancing in my career. I never gave Burning Man much thought.
Then, a life-changing event happened.
I had a brain injury.
For a while, I tried to hide the impact it had on me (that’s how I used to handle personal crisis), but the more I ignored it, the worse it got. I remember walking around the start-up social club I was working at, forcing myself to smile, but falling apart on the inside. Most of the time I couldn’t remember the thing I was about to say or someone’s name I knew well, my body was going from sweating to freezing every hour, my emotions were haywire, and I had extreme vertigo.
I went to my boss and told him what was going on. We agreed that I'd go to Los Angeles for the summer to support a new office opening there, but also, so I could escape the intensity of New York City and heal.
Shoutout to bosses who care. May they become the norm, not the standout.
Until that moment, I’d describe my lifestyle as a stop-less bullet train. Now, I was being forced to not only make a stop, but get off AND take a step back while the train continued on.
Everyone I knew would be staying in NYC, hustling, having fun, and getting “ahead.” I felt mad and frustrated that I was no longer able to keep up. This may be the first and last time I truly felt “FOMO” in my life.
But, this was also the Ashley who still believed she was in complete control of her life so, that checks out.
Off to Los Angeles I went.
I spent the bare minimum amount of hours at work. I’d usually leave early, hoping nobody would see, pick up food along the way, and sit alone in my corporate apartment in Hollywood. If I wasn’t doing that I was sleeping. I continued this on repeat daily for the whole summer.
Thinking back on that time, I get goosebumps remembering just how isolated and alone I felt. I learned firsthand that there’s no playbook to how long it takes for trauma to heal. Once the physical symptoms subside, people stop checking in. And, that’s the hardest part.
This was the summer I met myself. Because that’s what happens when we slow down.
As the witchy Florence Welch sings, “it’s always darkest before the dawn.”
Suddenly, I felt all the feelings I’d been avoiding for years. I felt afraid, scared, anxious, and lonely. I felt like a cartoon character roaming the planet with a big, dark, stormy raincloud over my head. Not only did my body shut down, my soul did too.
I know, I know. That shit’s dark. But it was true.
What is also true is how authentic and honest I was being with myself for the first time, in a long time.
Then one night, sitting on the cold vinyl flooring of my apartment, I got a text message from a friend back in New York.
She told me an introduction I made for her resulted in the biggest job offer she’d ever gotten, and wanted to thank me for making the connection by gifting me a ticket to Burning Man.
I didn’t have the precise awareness then, but I can now see how this moment was the universe’s way of reminding me of my purpose: connection.
It was like a life raft reaching out, reminding me who I am and inviting me to go deeper. Up until this point, connection was defined as the introductions I could make to help people along their path (romantic, business, etc). But, Burning Man that year gave me the greatest gift I’ve ever received, a connection to myself.
I dove head first into that burn. And, even though I was still recovering from my injury (which ultimately took 18 months), my purpose was activated and in the driver’s seat.
I joined a camp as their membership lead, I showed up early to the Playa to help build, and left late to tear down.
For ten days, I got swept up in the serendipitous magic of Burning Man. I showed up with zero expectations, because anything was better than what I’d been going through.
I didn’t have Instagram worthy costumes or a super-charged, high-powered electric bike. Honestly, I didn’t even have a coat because I didn’t realize how cold it would get. (Thank you to those who gifted me theirs).
That year wasn’t particularly hot during the day, but was freezing at night. We also had severe dust storms— more so than usual, I was told.
I remember one afternoon, on a solo ride looking at art, getting stuck in a gnarly dust storm. A complete white out. I couldn’t see a foot in front of me. And my sweet, little rusted bike broke trying to pedal through it. I got off and walked to the nearest tent I could find. It felt like I walked for miles.
Stumbling into the first tent I came across, I saw hundreds, maybe thousands of people sitting, deeply listening to a talk taking place on a stage. I took off my shoes and crouched down in the back to join. It was Marian Goodell, the CEO of Burning Man, giving a talk on community and feminine leadership.
Her talk changed my life. Transformed might actually be a more appropriate word to use here.
This was the first time I’d ever heard someone speak about community in a way that I felt deep in my bones. I cried. The tears were both hopeful and heavy, realizing how alone I'd felt, longing for what she was describing with such effortlessness and ease.
That night, I shared a vision I had for a community technology with a new friend, who’d later become one of the most influential men in my life. I remember every beat of that conversation like it were yesterday. It felt like every word that was spoken was manifesting a reality that would then design the next 10 years of my life. This is why I believe in the power of heart-centered conversations.
A month after Burning Man, I quit my job, got my own apartment in Venice Beach, and started figuring out how to launch my tech idea — a far cry from the drama major, turned matchmaker, turned community builder.
The lesson in this for me was that the moment you know what you want, it doesn’t matter what’s in your way, because you find a way to make it happen. And, if you don’t know yet what you want, that’s ok, because everything you’re currently doing is transpiring to get you to that clarity.
Every moment each day transpires to teach us something about ourselves; crisis is where we learn the most. It surfaces the deepest parts of ourselves we’re avoiding, presenting us with the clearest tests and gifts to see if we’re ready to pay attention to what matters, to make changes to live a more authentic life.
I could have easily said no to going to Burning Man that year given my situation. But while my head judged the decision, my body and my heart were a yes from the moment I read that text. Every day, I continue to learn that if we do the things our heart and body tell us to, we’ll always be on the right path. It’s when we listen to our head trash that we end up living a life as a hamster on a wheel, getting no where.
I grew more from that summer in recovery and Burning Man than I did over a decade of living in New York City. Crisis has the power to alchemize us into a new way of being, and for me it continues to do just that.
The thing about crisis is that we don’t get to choose when we will face it, but something tells me the Burning Man community is well positioned to come out of the mud with a better understanding of themselves, their purpose, and their connection to others.
That’s the silver lining I’ve been using now for a few years as we continue to navigate global crises at an exponential rate. It helps us cut through the bullshit and truly meet ourselves in the most authentic way. It teaches us about what actually matters.
Integration
Answer the following questions on a piece of paper or journal (there’s actual science that shows this is better for you then typing/texting).
Think back to a crisis you experienced (personal or collective). How did you respond? What did you learn about yourself?
Who in your life do you admire in a crisis? What about them are you grateful for?
During your next crisis, would you like to show up differently. How so?
Connected,
Ashley
Founder + CEO, Liminal
Liminal offers 1:1 coaching in a progress-focused app to help you move through life and career transitions with ease. Schedule your free consultation to be matched with a coach.