Hope.
In the trailer, an older woman stood. Except for her shaved head, she could have been the grandmother of every friend or classmate I’d ever had. Between her capris, buttoned pink cardigan, and floral scarf, she was Leave It to Beaver wholesome, the type of person who called shirts “blouses.” She probably excelled at Scrabble, had volunteered at her local library before the move to Wisewood. I wondered what had brought her here—she was hardly the type to stray off the beaten path.
“Now that we’re all here, shall we begin, my lovelies?” She beamed as she gazed at each of us, her voice warm and tinkling. “Welcome to day one of Identifying Your Maximized Self. My name is Ruth? If you’re willing, let’s go around the circle, say our names, where we’re from, and why we’ve joined Wisewood? What we’re hoping to get out of the experience?”
Ruth gestured for the lady on her right to introduce herself. I considered what to say when my turn came. I’d first heard about Wisewood while eavesdropping on two accountants in the office cafeteria. The women had been sitting at the table next to mine, chatting and scrolling on their phones while they dug into Burger King sandwiches. I didn’t recognize either of them—thousands of people worked in the New York office—but the excitement in one of their voices caught my ear.
The first woman set down her phone. “I’m not kidding, Amy. This was better than that night with the Italian gymnast.” She chuckled. “For the first time in my life, I could be myself. Warts and all.” She played with a J that dangled from a thin gold chain around her neck. “You know I went there to give myself six months to get over you know who, but after a month I was barely thinking about her. My reason for being there completely changed.”
“Good for you.” Amy patted J’s arm. She let one of her black pumps dangle from her toes. “I still can’t believe you stuck it out the entire time, though. You hate talking to strangers.”
“It was oddly freeing. No one knew me from my actual life, so I could be anyone I wanted. Instead of the boring accountant who watches The Crown and is in bed by ten, there I was a daredevil. The life of the party, even.”
Amy looked amused and slightly skeptical.
J leaned in. “I climbed a twenty-foot tree using nothing but my bare hands and feet. I swam naked in the ocean and convinced a handful of other people to join me. Me! The woman who hates public speaking and hasn’t lain on a beach in half a decade because she despises bathing suits that much. It’s like this wilder, more alive version of me has been waiting for her chance to break free.” She paused, then said, “I’m going to quit.”
Amy’s eyes widened when she understood what her friend was telling her. “Your job? Here?” she squealed. J shushed her and nodded. “What’ll you do instead?”
“I might finally apply to that French cooking school.” Amy clapped a hand over her mouth. J munched on a fry, thinking. “I’ve been at this career twenty years and I’m not even sure why. What am I so scared of? People judging me for starting over at forty? Failing at whatever I do next? Before Wisewood I could rationalize the steady job, the comfortable but slightly dull life. I’m a different person now. The world is teeming with possibilities, and I get to pick which ones I want.”
The spark in J’s eyes sold me, her newfound conviction that life was so much more than a bunch of pointless routines. The piecemeal efforts I’d been incorporating into my daily life—ten minutes of deep breathing here, a therapy session there, no drinking on weeknights—hadn’t gotten me far enough. I was healthier but no more revved up about my future. I wanted a big change. I wanted to blow up my life like this woman had.
I ran back to my desk, googled Wisewood, and signed up for more information. An e-brochure landed in my inbox soon after. I stared at the words until I had them memorized: Weeks 1–8: Discovery; Weeks 9–16: Application; Weeks 17–24: Mastery. Each phase outlined course work, one-on-ones, and workshops. Splashed throughout were gushing testimonials. At the end of it all was the price tag: four thousand dollars for six months, including room and board and all programming.
I sucked in a breath, nearly clicked away until I started doing the math. Six months of rent on my Brooklyn studio cost more than that. The therapist I’d seen once or twice charged a hundred dollars per session. To see her every day for six months would cost me 18,400 dollars. Wisewood was one-quarter of that price, plus it included lodging and meals. I would actually save money living there, as long as I could get out of my lease.
At the end of the brochure was a link to a three-page online application, asking for basic personal information, family and medical histories, and an essay. What are you struggling with? the application wanted to know. How have you tried to resolve your problems in the past? What are you hoping to get out of your time at Wisewood?
I let the e-mail sit for a week, even deleted it once before dragging it back to my inbox twelve hours later. I couldn’t leave the idea alone—a blank slate, a fresh start somewhere no one knew me. A chance to build a life I wanted. I might not have known what that life looked like yet, but maybe Wisewood could tell me. I filled out the form at two in the morning one sleepless Friday, pressing send before I could change my mind. Thank you for your application, the confirmation e-mail said. We aim to respond to all applicants within 48 hours. If you are approved, you will receive a follow-up e-mail informing you of your stay dates. If these dates do not work for you, we’ll give you two alternatives. You must pick from one of those three options. Payment is due upon arrival.
I woke up the next morning to an invitation to join. I’d been walking on air ever since.
That explained how I’d come to Wisewood but hardly clarified why. Why did I want to blow up my life? Because I’d sobbed in the shower every morning for the past year and a half? Because people said the grief would come in waves, but for me it had been a thirty-foot surge that never let up? Because the only way I could stop the guilt was by drowning myself in so many commitments that I didn’t have time to think? I snapped the elastic band on my wrist against already-pink skin.
The person to Ruth’s right said she’d struggled with anxiety for forty years. The second was lonely—he had retired in Maine last year and wanted to build a community of active seniors. The third hoped to be less afraid of death. He had a slow-moving terminal illness.