As I sat against the rough bark of a tree, sharpening another stick for a spear, I felt a strange mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. Every scrape of the rock against wood echoed in the quiet forest, each spark of friction like a drumbeat in the stillness. My fingers were raw and stiff, my muscles trembling from effort and hunger, but somehow I felt alive in a way I hadn't in years. I was supposed to be a city girl—lights, cafés, crowded streets, endless noise—but here, in this unrelenting wilderness, I was something else entirely. I was raw. I was vulnerable. And yet, every branch I sharpened, every snare I tied, every careful motion I made to create weapons and traps felt like I was laying claim to a part of myself I didn't know existed. I thought of Reese, of my brother Luke, and of everything I had taken for granted. The city, my friends, my comforts—they all felt like a different life, a different person. This Alice, the one crouched in the dirt fashioning tools from sticks and rocks, was someone I barely recognized, but I also realized I had always carried her inside, hidden beneath layers of routine and convenience. Hunger sharpened my senses in ways I hadn't imagined. Every rustle of leaves, every whisper of wind became something I had to notice, something I had to account for. I felt my pulse quicken when I imagined the animals I might catch, the careful balance between patience and action, the thrill and terror of survival. The wilderness outside mirrored the wilderness inside me—the raw, chaotic, unrefined, frightening parts of myself I had long ignored. I had never held a spear before, never tied a trap that might determine life or death, and yet here I was, doing both with a steady, focused intensity. I realized that this was not just about survival in the forest—it was about survival of a different kind, survival of the inner self I had never confronted. I had been a city girl who relied on convenience, on schedules, on familiar streets and people. Now I relied on instinct, improvisation, and the force of my own hands and mind. Each decision felt monumental. Every step, every careful placement of a snare, every sharpened point on a stick was a declaration: I would endure, I would adapt, I would survive. And yet, in the quiet moments, when the forest seemed to breathe around me, I was forced to confront fear, loneliness, and my own vulnerability. The wilderness inside me was unruly, wild, and impatient, but it was also fiercely alive. I had discovered a part of myself I hadn't known existed, a rawness that both terrified and exhilarated me. I imagined hunting, the tension of a trap snapping shut, the careful precision of spearing, the rhythm of observing and waiting, and I realized it wasn't just the animals I was learning to read—it was myself. Every movement, every calculated risk, every improvised tool was shaping not just my survival but the way I understood who I was beneath the layers of city life, beneath the habits and comforts I had taken for granted. My hands were blistered, my body ached, and my stomach growled, but I felt a fierce pride rising in me. The forest was teaching me lessons I had never imagined I could learn: patience, focus, resourcefulness, and the quiet, unyielding strength of self-reliance. For the first time in my life, I was not distracted by phones, noise, or the rhythm of city life. I was stripped down to the essential me, confronting the raw, wild, unfiltered existence I had never allowed myself to face. And though the forest was relentless, unforgiving, and often frightening, I realized that this inner wilderness—the instinctive, untamed part of me—was something I had always carried, waiting for a time like this to emerge. I could feel it coursing through me with every sharpened stick, every trap tied, and every careful observation of the forest around me. It was as if the wilderness outside and the wilderness inside were merging, shaping me into someone I had never known but who was fiercely, undeniably alive. I closed my eyes for a brief moment, imagining the life I had left behind, and then opened them again to the forest around me. Hunger and fear still gnawed at me, but beneath that, a steady, powerful awareness pulsed through my veins: I was capable. I was learning. I was evolving. And in the quiet, endless expanse of this wild place, I discovered that survival wasn't just about food, water, or shelter—it was about discovering the wild, unbroken part of yourself that refused to be defeated.
