Ch. 15 - 8 Days Rafting the San Juan River + Shaking Hands with Ego Death.

The San Juan River did me dirty—and then cleaned me in the best of ways.

Every experience is so unique, and this kind of living—on a river for eight days—is healing in a way I can’t fully explain. It’s May 2025, and if you’ve made it this far, you know I’ve been through quite the journey in the other chapters of my life. It feels as though healing trauma has been the main source of “inner work” I’ve been called to do.

At this point, I was still new to Colorado when a friend asked me to join a group of people on a raft and basically live in the canyons. We boated 8–10 miles a day, then would “eddy” the boats or anchor them, then camp on the beaches. We were so far from civilization. I mean, the drive to just launch was about 3 hours with no signal—so we were truly in the middle of nowhere.

There’s something surreal about that. About being with a group of humans in a wild environment. It does something to you, you know? These are the kinds of places where my inner work happens. Maybe that’s why I have to leave the country—or at least disappear into the wild—every so often. I need to hear my heart. We get so convoluted in everyday life. Stepping into other countries, or places untouched by noise, has taught me how boxed in we really are.

I didn’t just learn incredible skills on the San Juan River—I was humbled by the connection with the people around me. We got to be human for once. Cook food. Laugh. Work on the boat. Make our way to the next destination and tell stories. I floated from raft to raft, getting to know everyone. I helped steer the boat and learned how to row backward. It was just us, the canyons, and the river.

We even “poo’ed” in a groover—a bucket used on rafting trips that unfortunately gets carried with you until the trip is over.

We took turns cooking. We didn’t shower—just bathed in the river. And guys… I felt so free. Like the rawness of being myself was finally allowed. Some of the boys “cowboy camped,” which just means sleeping directly on the ground because the canyons felt that safe and ancient. Two tall canyon walls guiding you down the river. I want everyone in this world to experience that at least once.

One night, something happened.

I’m not sure I’ve talked about this before, but since I was about five years old, I used to have recurring dreams about someone—an unknown entity—“getting me” or “catching me.” They would crawl their fingers up my back, and I’d wake up shaking, shivering, with the sensation still alive in my spine. I was always terrified of these dreams.

As a kid, I called them “tickling dreams” because I didn’t know how else to describe that chill running up my spine. They were haunting—especially because the feeling stayed with me even after I woke up. I would freeze and wait for it to pass before falling back asleep.

On this particular night in the canyons—which, by the way, are deeply spiritual, with petroglyphs still etched into the canyon walls from Navajo tribes—I slept in a tent with a screen ceiling so I could see the stars. I had one of those dreams. It had been years.

This time, the face was finally clear. It was my dad.

In the dream, he grabbed me. I woke up immediately with the familiar chill racing up my spine—except this time it was strong, intense. I remained frozen longer than I ever had after one of these dreams. A solid hour. A ball of energy sat in my spine, unmoving.

From what I now understand through breathwork (lots of wild sessions—maybe another blog) and yoga, I recognized this as kundalini energy. I knew it was related to healing—I just didn’t know how. And it turned out to be true. This sensation in my back was trauma trying to surface.

Using what I knew from meditation, I tried to sit with it. It was not painful—but overwhelming. It felt like too much energy trapped in one place in my mid-back. I felt like if I let go, I might combust. Part of me panicked because this wasn’t traditional—there was no physical explanation.

Still, I tried to meditate.

I let the sensation expand through my body, but it only intensified. My heart raced. I looked up at the stars and felt worse. So existential.
What am I? What is happening? Am I about to face death?

Then, suddenly, something clicked.

It felt like the stars, the canyons, the universe were asking me to drop the trauma story. To go to the places within myself I avoid. To acknowledge it head-on—and then give it up. In a strange way, it wanted to take my story away.

But I was afraid.

If I let it go, who would I be? I had only known myself as Patty—the abused survivor. And now you want to take that too?

If it disappeared, I wouldn’t be the Patty I knew. Maybe I wouldn’t be anxious or neurotic anymore. Maybe I wouldn’t cling so tightly to love, to people, to my favorite things. I loved my odd self. I even loved my neuroses. As much as I hated them, they were familiar. They were my box.

I was standing on the edge of something—an abyss. An ego death. All I had to do was let go of my sense of “I.”

And I couldn’t.

It was too big. Too existential. I was afraid of going crazy. I wanted to protect my psyche. I wanted to protect myself. So I asked the universe to slow down. I told it I couldn’t take these ripping moments where my ego felt like it was burning alive.

“Not right now,” I said. “It’s not time.”

The sensation subsided. I fell asleep and returned to my familiar Patty-ness. My regular Patty.

And to this day, I am still deeply moved by that moment.