Free To Be Me

      

By Elicia Woodford

Drawn from her memoir Free To Be Me: A Memoir of Trauma, Healing, and Rebirth, this passage captures a powerful chapter in Elicia Woodford’s journey—both across cities and deep within—where revisiting her past becomes a gateway to healing her inner child and reclaiming emotional freedom.   Before leaving for Syracuse, I scheduled a reading with Alex, my favorite psychic, to connect with my dogs about my travel plans and get some guidance about my move to Puerto Viejo upon my return.   The day before my appointment, my neighbor and friend, Coco, who also happens to be an excellent psychic and tarot reader, invited me over. As we sat on her bed, chatting about my upcoming move while she shuffled her cards, she suddenly stopped.   “Elicia,” she said, “I know you don’t want to hear this, but a great love is coming.” “Yeah, I really don’t,” I replied. “I’m craving solitude right now.”   The very next day, during my scheduled reading with Alex, we discussed my decision to move to Puerto Viejo. And then she said the same thing: “Elicia, I know you don’t want to hear this, but a great love is coming.”   Hearing those identical words two days in a row definitely made me take notice, though I put it in the back of my mind.   Leaving for Syracuse was more complicated than I expected. My emotions were running so high that I didn’t realize I was a day late for my flight until I reached the check-in counter. I was devastated, and my stomach dropped as tears streamed down my face. It was Friday, and the next available flight wasn’t until Monday, which would have been incredibly expensive.   Thankfully, Delta’s customer service found a solution: I spent the night in San Jose, flew to Atlanta the next day, stayed in an airport hotel, and then caught an early flight to New York City and finally landed in Syracuse.   As it turned out, those extra nights and the unplanned visits with dear friends in each city were exactly what I needed to prepare for my return to my teenage home. After two wonderful days with my dad and his wife, I finally had the house to myself. It struck me that I hadn’t lived in such a spacious home in years, and the freedom to move around felt exhilarating.   I queued up a music channel on my dad’s impressive TV, the sound pouring out through his audiophile speakers. Then, I lost myself in the music, dancing and singing along to REM, New Order, Violent Femmes, Bauhaus, and The Cure.   Each song was a portal back to high school, but this time, I was fully present, joyful, and filled with self-love.   Driving to the nearby shopping center, a wave of nostalgia washed over me as I remembered cruising with friends in my old 1980s diesel VW Rabbit listening to N.W.A.   I walked into a thrift shop, and they were also playing all my high school favorites. I couldn’t resist buying a pair of sky-blue Jordache jeans. It felt like my teenage self had returned, fully embracing who we’ve become.   With Sinead O’Connor’s “Feel So Different” playing, the drive home became a journey of gratitude and liberation. I felt profoundly changed, as if a heavy burden had finally been lifted.   My best friend from high school, Christy, joined me at the house, and we had a night filled with champagne, laughter, and our favorite music. I was excited to talk about Sinead O’Connor’s documentary, but she hadn’t seen it. “Let’s watch it soon,” I suggested.   The following day, while relaxing in the hot tub, my phone lit up with notifications—Sinead O’Connor died. My heart ached, and tears flowed down my face into the water. So many people reached out because they knew how much her music meant to me, especially the song “Troy.”   That song defined my teenage years, forever associated with an older boy I was infatuated with starting at fourteen years old. The way he used and discarded me marked the beginning of my dysfunctional patterns with men.   In my twenties, my late-night party crew knew that an a cappella rendition of “Troy” was almost guaranteed. My friends knew me so well that a simple “It was a Troy night” was all the communication we needed.   While I was staying in the same room where those feelings and patterns began, I heard this news. It felt like the universe was pulling me back to my past for one last, powerful encounter.   Going further back, my elementary school friend, Jenny, reached out. We hadn’t seen each other since we lived on the same street forty years ago.   Our reunion was full of joy, and we hugged tightly. After a delicious Mexican dinner, we strolled through the park across the street, and that’s when we heard the news: Paul Reubens, Pee-wee Herman, had just died.   Another surreal coincidence, as we used to watch Pee-wee’s Playhouse together.   And then, as if to confirm the saying that things come in threes, my mom’s dog, my little “sister,” died while I was in Syracuse. She was the last dog my parents had together in this house before their divorce. It felt like I was caught in some elaborate, cosmic game of “Elicia, This Is Your Life!”   To add to everything, Christy’s little sister got married while I was visiting, and I was warmly included in the celebration. Seeing Christy’s mom and witnessing her tears as she saw us together was incredibly moving.   It was also the first time I truly enjoyed being back in Syracuse. I appreciated the new graffiti art downtown and felt surprisingly at peace and comfortable in my teenage home.   As I booked my return to Costa Rica, the Atlanta layover felt like a sign. I knew I wasn’t emotionally prepared to face Montezuma: packing up my life and splitting up our dogs, and the uncertainty of when I would return to the US.   I decided to book a one-way ticket to Atlanta and stay longer with my friend Jocelyn. After picking me up from the airport, as I stepped out of her car, my jeans ripped at the seam. The sheer absurdity of it hit us both at once.   We doubled over in laughter, tears streaming as Joc snapped a photo of my exposed butt cheek – a moment forever immortalized.   After settling in, we instantly fell into our flow and realized we are fantastic roommates, and, predictably, spent much of our time in fits of laughter on the floor.   The two weeks I spent in Atlanta were deeply fulfilling and truly magical. I had three beautiful photo shoots, including one with Kady, a shamanic healer who provided deep healing and clear guidance.   I rekindled a friendship, and, after nearly two decades of silence, even exchanged heartfelt messages with my first husband, Justin, who had also clearly done some deep healing and offered a sincere apology.   As a gesture of gratitude to Jocelyn for her hospitality, I took her to my favorite Tex-Mex restaurant near my beloved loft. After dinner, we wandered through Cabbagetown, admiring the vibrant street art.   Just before we entered the Krog Street tunnel, I paused at 97 Estoria, flooded with fond memories of my friend who had tragically passed away from brain cancer in 2020. At that exact moment, a mutual friend of ours rode by on his bicycle, calling out, “Hi, Elicia!” I knew our friend above had orchestrated that little encounter.   After showing Jocelyn the schoolhouse loft building where I used to live, we strolled back to her car. And then, near 97 Estoria again, I heard someone call my name. I turned to see my very first roommate in Atlanta from 1996.   Okay, yes, I thought, this is absolutely my life.   The night before my departure, I closed my eyes, and my hands pressed gently against my heart. A wave of peace washed over me as I smiled, feeling a profound sense of closure—as if a circle, years in the making, had finally completed its turn through my past.     For more information about Elicia Woodford, and to purchase a copy of Free To Be Me, visit:   https://www.eliciawoodford.com