Your life doesn’t manifest out of nothingness. It is born of thought, energy, desire, craving. Tune your emotions and attentions to the frequency of success, and the universe will dial right in. The universe will listen and the universe will deliver.
In other words, pretend you already have what you want, and eventually it will be yours.
So...are you ready?
Then buckle up, sweetie. It’s going to be a wild ride.
You’re about to #EVOLVE.
Chapter 6
There was a funny sort of swirling in my brain. Thoughts came at me fast, spinning in circles and generating sparks. A jolt shot down my spine and out toward my fingers and toes, making my entire body vibrate with a rare and welcome feeling: validation.
Call me crazy, but it kind of felt like Demi DiPalma was speaking directly to me. Like she really could see right straight into my heart. All those struggles she’d described sounded achingly familiar. Especially the feeling that everyone else was moving forward, while I was standing still, mired in the quicksand of past failures, old boyfriends, dead and deadbeat parents.
It was a short book, more of a glorified pamphlet, so I devoured it in under an hour. True, there were certain parts that made me raise an eyebrow, like the chart detailing the essential oil and crystal combinations that would assuredly help me “manifest abundance,” whatever that meant. Perhaps I would have been less skeptical had she not included a discount code for ordering the sets, dubbed “Prosperity Packages,” on demidipalma.com.
For the most part, though, I was into her whole spiel. The focused ritual of creating a vision board, the confidence-boosting power of positive affirmations, the cathartic symbolism of throwing all your negative experiences and energies into a fire and watching them burn. It sounded inspiring. Though I wasn’t exactly sure how it was going to change my life.
Because I kept getting tripped up on the first step: defining my aspiration. That was the crux of my whole problem, right? I had no idea what would lead me on the path to happy, no clue where it started or which direction to walk in to get there. No passion I was aching to pursue.
I tried using that whole “creative visualization” technique, but when I closed my eyes, all I saw was an Instagram feed scrolling through my brain. Pictures of kittens and beaches and enviable thigh gaps flew by on an infinite loop. Apparently, social media had zapped me of my ability to generate an original thought.
Then again, maybe I was—as Demi would put it—“meandering through my subconscious mind.” Even though I had no interest in being an Instagram influencer, I certainly wouldn’t have minded if my life looked like one of those perfectly curated feeds. And according to Demi, aspirations were all about what you wanted your life to look like, not about what you actually did.
Which somehow didn’t seem right. Shouldn’t an “action plan” be about taking action?
The more time I spent on this, the more ridiculous it seemed. The universe wasn’t going to dial into my desires, no matter what frequency I tuned them to. That didn’t even make sense! Besides, right now my only desire was to chuck this book across the room and take a leisurely scroll through Instagram.
But if I gave in to that desire, I’d be letting Natasha down. She’d asked me to follow her advice. To read this book and to take control of my life. There was no way I could ignore her, not after everything she’d done for me. And honestly, it’s not like I had any other solid plan to turn my life around.
Obviously, there was no other choice. Even though I didn’t believe in Demi DiPalma’s four-step manifesting process, I was just going to have to fake it.
Rather than staying hung up on step one forever, I decided to push forward and get started on step two: sending my desires out into the universe. My aspiration wasn’t clearly defined, but I could still put together a vision board based on the Instagram feed in my mind. The instructions were outlined in the following chapter.
Now it’s time to get those visualizations out of your brain and into the atmosphere, providing a beacon toward which the universe can guide its energy.
Your vision board will be a physical representation of everything you want to manifest into your life. Include photos of anything you wish to acquire: money, cars, homes, opportunities for luxury travel. You can also incorporate words and phrases that describe your new life and affirm how worthy you are of the abundance you’re about to receive.
Use vivid, clear imagery. Let there be no room for ambiguity in your quest for greatness.
And don’t limit yourself, either. Remember: no dream is too big for you, sweetie.
To create a vision board, Demi suggested lighting a candle, turning on some soft music, and sitting down with a stack of old magazines to search for pictures that inspired you. For me, that wasn’t very practical. I may have had a lot of garbage hanging around this apartment, but old magazines were in short supply. I could search the internet for photos, but I didn’t have a printer. Or scissors or glue, for that matter.
So I decided to assemble a virtual vision board. And what better platform for an Instagram-inspired vision board than Instagram itself?
I fired up the app and looked at my long-neglected profile. My bio was empty, my photo was taken who-knows-how-many years ago, and my feed hadn’t been updated since before I’d dropped out of school. There were still pictures of my old dorm room in there, for crying out loud. Talk about negative energy.
If this was going to be a representation of everything extraordinary I wanted my future to hold, I couldn’t allow my mediocre past anywhere near it.
With a few quick taps, I deleted my old profile and created a brand-new one, @breebythesea. And this time I filled in the bio.
Bree
25 | San Diego, CA |
I manifest my dreams and dominate my desires.
#noexcuses #choosehappy #aspirationalactionplan
I took a quick selfie, applied the most flattering filter I could find, and uploaded it as my profile photo. Then I started searching for my dreams.
Hashtags made it easy. #instaglam led me to photos of women posed with perfect outfits, perfect haircuts, perfect makeup. #luxurylifestyle delivered gorgeous interior design and scenic travel destinations. #goals turned up graphics with inspirational quotes like, “Remain open to possibility,” and “You are stronger than your fears.” I reposted them all to my feed, only using hashtags in the captions: #noexcuses and #choosehappy. No need to muddy the manifesting waters with descriptive text. Surely, photographs alone were enough to convey my message to the universe.
I even threw in a photo of an orange tabby I found on #catstagram, simply because I loved cats, and I thought it was cute. My landlord had a strict no-pets policy, but according to Demi, no dream was too big for me!
While browsing the hashtag #goodvibesonly, I paused on a photo of a woman in a bright red bikini wading into the waves on an empty beach. She turned away from the camera, so her face wasn’t visible. All you could see was her long dark hair cascading down the center of her tanned, toned back. Her fingertips grazed the surface of the water as she stared out on an epic orange sunset.
No doubt the photo was aspirational content at its very finest, but I was hesitant to repost it to my feed. This dream definitely seemed too big for me. Frankly, I’d be more likely to harbor an illegal cat in my illegal apartment than to wander out into the ocean.
Ever since that horrible experience in the fifth grade, that surf lesson gone awry, I’d been too afraid to go back in. The waves were unpredictable, they could eat me alive. And with the water churning, you couldn’t see very far beneath the surface. Who knew what dangerous creatures lurked in the darkness below? There could be sharks or jellyfish or swarms of pinchy crabs.
It looked so fun, though. Especially on hot summer days, when the beaches reached maximum capacity, and there were throngs of people swimming and splashing arou
nd. While everyone else cooled off in the ocean, I’d cower onshore in a full sweat, trying and failing to work up the courage to charge into the waves.
Rob had always teased me mercilessly about my fear. Whenever we went to the beach, he’d point out little children bodysurfing with confidence, and my cheeks would burn with shame. It’s not like I enjoyed being a scaredy-cat. There’s nothing more I would’ve loved than to dive in without a care. I just couldn’t.
I knew what Demi DiPalma would say to this line of thinking, though. She’d tell me I was allowing my past to weigh me down and my negative thoughts to hold me back. That I was making excuses for my failures. That the power to change was in my hands.
And though I wasn’t sure I believed her, I was struck by the sudden urge to post the photo of the woman in the water to my virtual vision board. It looked so perfect positioned right next to the assertion that I was stronger than my fears. In fact, seeing those two images beside each other made me wonder: If I could conquer my fear of the ocean, what other hurdles in life could I clear?
Sunset was fast approaching. If I hustled, I could make it to Law Street Beach with plenty of time to catch it—and re-create this photo in real life.
As I wriggled into my bikini, I told myself there was no pressure. Maybe once I got there, I’d be too scared to get my feet wet. Or maybe I’d be brave enough to wade all the way in. Either way, I pledged to remain open to possibility.
After throwing on a maxidress, I grabbed my phone and headed out the door. The beach was four blocks west, which meant I had to pass by the blue bungalow. Inside, the lights were off, with no sign of Trey. I thought of all the times I’d stood beside that picket fence, daydreaming about what it would be like to live there. Demi DiPalma would probably call this fantasizing habit of mine “creative visualization,” a way to home in on my deepest desires.
Which meant this house probably belonged on my vision board.
So I snapped a photo, uploaded it to Instagram, and continued on my way.
By the time I arrived at the beach, the sun was hanging low over the water. Crowds gathered to watch the big event; sunsets were a nightly celebration on the San Diego coastline. Lovers held hands, children ran in circles, friends toasted with a contraband bottle of wine. Dozens of phones were aimed toward the sky. I wondered how many of these photos would end up on Instagram in a matter of minutes.
I pulled my dress over my head and set it on a boulder, hiding my phone in the folds of the fabric, then walked unsteadily toward the shoreline, where I let my toes sink into the cool, wet sand. This was as far out as I usually ventured; the boundary of my comfort zone ended here.
The thinnest ripple of water washed over the tops of my feet, sending chills up the backs of my legs. Reflexively, I recoiled, hopping back toward dry land.
This was a stupid idea. Supremely, extraordinarily stupid.
Although the dozens of other people playing around in the ocean at the moment would’ve likely disagreed with me. They were all happy and relaxed, free from irrational fear.
Meanwhile, I was terrified. Not only of the ocean, but of other things, too: failure, judgment, rejection. But if I was ever going to make any progress in this life, I would have to pretend those fears didn’t exist.
In other words, I would have to fake it.
So I kept putting one foot in front of the other. They were small steps, but they brought me forward into the shallows. I continued on, passing a mom dipping her baby’s toes in the water, an elderly couple holding hands as the waves lapped their ankles, some teenagers tossing a football and diving to catch it before it hit the surface.
Always looking ahead of me, never looking back. Progress was happening, right before my eyes.
The positive affirmations, the vision board, the “fake it till you make it” philosophy. I’d scoffed at them, but maybe there was value in this whole process. Because now, I was standing thigh-deep in the Pacific Ocean for the first time in years. And it was incredible.
I felt strong, capable, fearless. Like I had finally found the trailhead of the path to happy.
I was proving Rob wrong. I was making Natasha proud.
Then suddenly I was face down in the water.
After some panicked flailing, I managed to right myself. One of those teenagers had knocked me off my feet during a dive to catch the football. With an apology, he grabbed my arm to steady me. Freaked out, I wiggled away from his grip and stumbled backward, only to fall again, this time on my bottom.
This was a stupid idea. Supremely, extraordinarily stupid.
Scrambling to my feet again, I stepped to the right, down into an unseen hole. Water sloshed against my stomach and I scrambled out of the pit before the next wave rolled in, crashing against my thighs, threatening my already precarious center of balance.
Telling myself not to panic was futile—my heart was already threatening to bust through my ribs—so instead I focused on getting out of the water as quickly as possible. There was a lull in the waves now and the water rippled around my shins. Just a few big steps and I’d be back on dry land.
I took great long strides, digging my toes into the sand for traction. At one point, I stepped on a shell or a rock, something sharp that cut the bottom of my foot, but I kept on walking, eager to reach the shore. When I did, I collapsed in a heap, my hair soaked, my chest heaving.
What the hell had I been thinking? As if some aspirational Instagram photo and a dime-a-dozen aphorism would’ve miraculously cured me of my very real, very deep-seated fear.
Salt water dripped from my skin, and I realized I’d forgotten to bring a towel. As I wrung out my hair with my sand-covered hands, I cursed myself for being so foolish as to believe in aspirations and abundance and energy following thought. If the universe really was delivering a message, then it was telling me to stay the hell home. Which is where I wanted to go, immediately.
But as I tried to stand up, my left foot began to burn. I sat back down and inspected the cut on the bottom. It was small, like a narrow shard of glass had lodged itself in there. The pain was enormous, though, spreading outward and upward. Then, it was all I could feel or hear or see.
Pain. Deep, throbbing, excruciating pain.
My scream ripped across the beach, echoing off the dunes.
Chapter 7
“We need to get you to the lifeguard tower. Can you stand up?”
There was a crowd around me now. Helpful, concerned citizens were rubbing my back and holding my hand. A few teenagers hung back and gawked. I’d have been humiliated if I wasn’t in agony.
“I think so.” I pushed myself up, leaning forward and putting all my weight on my right foot. The movement caused my left leg to throb fiercely. Shaking from the pain, I faltered and fell sideways, but a woman wrapped her arm around my back and steadied me.
“We’ll support you, okay?” A man was on my opposite side, his hand hooked under my armpit. “We’re just gonna walk over there.”
He pointed across the infinite expanse of sand, toward the lifeguard tower back by the entrance to the beach.
“Okay,” I said, though I felt far from okay, and I was pretty sure I wasn’t gonna make it. Still, I forged on, hopping over uneven mounds of sand, crying out each time my body made contact with the earth. At any moment, I expected my left foot to spontaneously combust.
My eyes were focused on the ground, making sure the path in front of me was clear. The last thing I needed was to trip on a tangle of kelp and twist my remaining good ankle. After sweating and hopping for what seemed like an eternity, I raised my eyes, only to see the lifeguard station still an impossible distance away. Unwittingly, I moaned.
“You’re almost there,” said the helpful, concerned woman with her arm around my back. But I wasn’t almost there, not by a long shot, and my foot and leg were getting worse by the second.
There was a commotio
n behind me, some kind of chipper chatter. Surfer bros commenting on waves or something. I couldn’t focus well enough to make out exactly what they were saying, but there was a lot of “dude” and “sweet” and “stoked” getting thrown around. Then, a shadow appeared on the sand in front of me, and the people supporting me stopped in their tracks.
“What happened? Is she okay?”
The voice sounded vaguely familiar. I looked up, and there was Trey Cantu, famous pro surfer, sopping wet and hot as ever. As my saviors explained how I’d stumbled from the water and screamed uncontrollably, he glanced at my rapidly swelling foot and said, “I’ll take her the rest of the way.”
In one swift movement, he grabbed me around the waist and hoisted me over his shoulder. Instinctively, I shrieked, but quickly settled down when I felt his firm grip on the backs of my thighs. I was safe here, nestled up against him, his strong legs carrying us capably over the uneven terrain. My ass was dangerously close to his face, but I was surprisingly indifferent about that. It was hard to worry about anything aside from the pain.
Moments later, Trey sat me down gently in a blue plastic chair outside the lifeguard tower, placed my dress and phone in my lap (how had he found them?), then stuck his head inside the doorway, yelling, “Stingray wound out here!” He came back and knelt at my feet, inspecting the cut on my sole. “Looks pretty clean.”
“It hurts!” I screamed like an animal.
A lifeguard rushed out of the tower with a white five-gallon bucket in her hands. It was lined with a clear plastic bag and filled with water. “Put your foot in here,” she said, and I complied.
The water was scalding, so hot I thought for sure blisters must be forming on my skin. But the deep, throbbing pain disappeared instantaneously. In that moment, I’d have gladly suffered third-degree burns for this blissful sensation of relief.
Steam billowed from the bucket. I leaned back into the chair, closing my eyes and sighing out all the tension in my body. When I opened them again, Trey was crouched down in front of me, silently studying my face. So I took the opportunity to study his.
She's Faking It Page 6
