For immediate treatment, my doctor suggested having my hormonal IUD swapped as I was coming up on year seven of its suggested eight-year lifespan, and can be effective in easing endometriosis symptoms. But complications can arise from that procedure and it’s also incredibly painful. So I decided to have faith in my own coping mechanisms and make an appointment for a removal and reinsertion for when I returned. A few weeks later, I set off for Norway.
The first leg of my journey was an overnight flight to Paris—smack-dab in the middle of the Olympic Games—followed by an early-morning route to Tromsø, where I spent an evening before hopping on a ferry north. The morning boat ride that followed was a dream, cutting through channels buttressed by fjords, whales occasionally emerging from the deep. It was there that I encountered some of my fellow travelers also on their way to the retreat. As we asked each other getting-to-know-you questions, the wind on the outdoor top deck threw our hair into sinewy halos. I tried to find ways to mention my endometriosis, as a way to somehow prepare them for my pain and shield myself from future social discomfort, but it didn’t feel right.
Our home for the week was a collection of weather-aged buildings—the main house, a boathouse with a mural of colorful shapes facing the road, a petite sauna that long ago served as dynamite storage, a lighthouse and an accompanying maintenance shed, and a light-filled blue barn. The latter was where we opened each day with a creative prompt. We were encouraged to simply play—with found materials and ink, paint, pencils, cyanotype photography, and writing. I conjured up short story ideas and fell in love with painting watercolor volcanoes. Something about the uncertain flow of rocks and magma gave me permission to let go; I forgot about perfection and revisited a geological wonder I had obsessed over as a kid.
When we weren’t in the barn we were in nature, hiking in t-shirts and stripping down to our swimsuits for dips in freshwater lakes. We rode bikes, which had been stored in the basement of the barn, to swimming holes. This was summer in Northern Norway, and we fell into its rhythm. My roommate for the week, a beam of sunshine and a talented artist from the Netherlands, made me laugh before we even left the room every morning. I shared a heart-to-heart on a hike with another attendee who was battling some of the same career questions I had once struggled with. I still light up every time I see a message from her, checking in on a creative project or sharing updates on the home studio she’s creating. And I felt inspired by an artist named Maria, who blew my mind with her watercolors and calligraphy, and her plans to visit every single national park in the United States. When it came to my own story, well, before long most of the group knew about my endometriosis—a fact that some of my closest friends back home still weren’t aware of.
