I pull over in the driveway and park my car at the designated spot. The house from the outside looks just like the pictures on Airbnb – cute, quaint. A tall graceful lady with a soft smile and penetrating eyes welcomes me at the front door. I sense a pleasantly overwhelming smell of lavender that fills the hallway and the living room as soon as she invites me in. I am instantly swept into the warm and calming energy of this house and its owner. “I’m Wendy,” she introduces herself with poise. We start walking upstairs as we chat about my drive and the places I stopped to see on my way to her place. She shows me what is to be my room for the next three nights and invites me to continue chatting with her downstairs. I never refuse an invitation to exchange stories with kind Airbnb hosts, and this time is no exception.

The living room has big windows overlooking the Prescott National Forest. Soft afternoon light fills the space. Forest outside, plants inside. Grounding. Magical. I sit on the sofa and accept sparkling water. The conversation continues to flow as effortlessly as it started. As I ease further into the interaction, I feel settled and invited to unleash my curiosity about this woman, her house, this town. I learn that she planned and built this house herself many years ago, following an unexpected turn of life events. I hear about the business she runs, the travels she has done, the stories and experiences that altered her perceptions on living. With every detail she reveals, I am falling into deeper awe, amazement, appreciation for being a listener of such an inspiring and truly impressive story of one’s human life.

She then starts asking about my life. Who am I? What brings me to Prescott? Well, what brings me to the States, to start with? Yet again, I feel that my stories would be genuinely welcomed, acknowledged, understood by this person, so I start sharing bits and pieces of my own journey, my life back home, and the series of decisions that set me on the path that I am on now. I tell her that I moved to Tucson for graduate school.

“Did you move by yourself?” Wendy asks.
“Yes.” I nod.
“Did you know anybody?” she asks with eyes wider than before. I shake my head to say “no” and start to chuckle, as I remember how not knowing anybody when I moved here was very low on my list of concerns back then.
“Girl, how old were you?” she asks now in disbelief.
“Twenty-four.”
She pauses for a moment as if to cross-check all the facts that I shared, to put some pieces together, all these seemingly simple factual details about the points of major life transformations for me.
“You are one gutsy gutsy woman!” she exclaims in a way that makes me feel proud, seen, cheered on. I smile at this. I take a moment to soak her praise in. Praises settle differently when they come from other gutsy women, and evidently, this lady is one herself. I express that I echo the same sentiment about her, having heard about a few of her awe-inspiring life wins, having spent a moment talking to her, feeling welcomed, supported, cared for. Our conversation somehow transforms into an ode to womanhood, the shared sentiment – one of comfort and safety in each other’s company, the running theme – our common agreement that women are simply phenomenal, exceptional, gutsy, gutsy as hell.

***

I am reminded of this precious story because this year, more than ever before, I met and spent quality time with women who have impressed me on levels that I can barely even count. Women I have in my life as part of my friendship and support community and women I have met by destiny on the road have unveiled deep personal stories that scream bold and brave. While before I used to think that the women that are part of my life are particularly strong and gutsy, in my travels, I have realized that being gutsy is almost an innate part of womanhood, that no woman out there lacks guts if she is set to exist and thrive in the world that is today. The humbling and moving stories of all these women have left me wondering: What option do we have but to be bold?

Contrary to what is promoted in this world of shattered and hurting masculinity, boldness has a female face, but not a simple single story. In my collection of women’s gutsy moves, I have plenty to name. It is not my place to intimately (re)tell anyone’s story other than mine, but I am unleashing this inner eagerness to write about female boldness through multiple stories and encounters of happenstance.

Gutsy is:

A woman sitting next to me on the plane from Madrid to Atlanta who had just finished ten days of hiking the Camino de Santiago through pouring rain, exhausted, fulfilled, forever changed. 
A lady in her 80s who started talking to me at a bus stop in Valencia, sharing about the difficulty and the courage to make herself go and eat out alone after her husband’s recent death. 
Linda, one of the kindest Airbnb hosts I have ever met, who built a stunningly cozy Airbnb casita after her marriage fell apart and decided to welcome people wholeheartedly in her home.
Wendy, who chose to take matters in her hands, to make life worthwhile for herself and the people she was to meet, who decided to go with life’s unpredictable flow.
Marcia, who found her faith after a painful process of soul-searching, breaking up with family members, and reconnecting with the love of her life many years later.
Sheryl, who hiked Mount Humphreys, the highest mountain in Arizona, in her seventies after months of dedicated training and unshakeable commitment.
Eva, who shared with me her yerba mate mornings and evenings in El Chalten along with life stories about divorce, parenting, breaking free and fighting to help others on their path to freedom.
Nadia, my Patagonia girl, who selflessly took great care of me while sharing stories about carving your own path in which you develop your own business, create essential oils, and fight the government and the patriarchy amidst the process of self-reinvention.
Ana, who hiked Fitz Roy with me, the free-spirited, world-loving woman full of joy and eagerness to share stories of travel, both adventurous and dangerous from all over the world.

When I don’t meet women from all over the world when I am on the road for a snippet of time, I share memories and moments with women who I am beyond lucky to call friends of mine. And every time we show up for each other, fully and unconditionally, I am burning with desire to tell everyone about them, about how brave and beautiful they are.

Gutsy are:

Immigrant women who moved to the US with less than three thousand dollars, two suitcases, one dream, and zero familiar faces, making it through graduate school, jobs, pandemic, and still managing to build a safe ground and a community for themselves.
Single moms working tirelessly, parenting healthy and happy teens while reparenting themselves and giving unconditional love and support to their friends and adopted family.
Female friends who are boldly making choices scrutinized by a tight-knit community which judges and tries to reshape every beat of your existence.
Women trying to find their paths to authenticity and grand freedom while still living small and afraid because of that controlling tight-knit community.
Women digging deep into their souls to face their shadows and preparing to recreate a world of joy in which love is spread and friends are invited to feel cared for and safe.

Gutsy women, all of these gutsy as hell! Gutsy in their uniquely human and feminine way.

And me? When I think about my own gutsiness, I rewind all the stories, all the characters and plots and themes only to realize that just like everybody’s, my bold story too gets to be rewritten with every season. Once it’s about moving and settling. Another time it’s about leaving and traveling. And right now, at this peculiar moment of space and time, it is about the practice and embodiment of something that Wendy told me during our heartfelt conversations: “You have to let it go and go with the flow of life instead. Do not just stand and resist and let the flow pass all around you.” 

No dangerous solo trip, no intimidating deep water or high wall, no scorching desert or seemingly insurmountable peak need more guts than it does
to flow,
to let go,
to love.