During a conversation with a girlfriend, I got the idea of creating an organization that would help connect mountain communities to build schools in remote areas of the world. Literally overnight, Mountain to Mountain began. It was intended to support the work of Mortenson’s nonprofit, Central Asia Institute. (At around this same time, my daughter, Devon, was born, and my marriage of nine years ended.) But after two years of partnering with registered non-profits, I realized Mountain to Mountain needed to create its own projects and initiatives, and looked to take the giant leap towards Afghanistan.

I traveled to that country in November 2008 for a three-week scouting mission, bringing along photographer Tony Di Zinno to document what we saw, so we could share Afghanistan with people back home, connecting them on a deeper level to our mission. We documented visits to several schools, interviews with female parliamentary members and meeting with other nonprofits working in related fields.

Despite the foreign language, customs, women’s oppression, poverty and random violence and security issues, I felt comfortable almost the moment I stepped off the plane during that first visit. Even though I am reasonably confident and independent, there is always that feeling of holding back a part of who I really am — a sense that I should tone down my emotions, desires and expectations around others.

But that November in Kabul, that all changed. I felt calm stepping into uncharted waters of first-ever interviews taken with cabinet ministers to gain insight into the current state of education, women’s rights and Afghanistan’s politics.  While attending a buzkashi (the national sport, similar to polo) match with the president of the Afghan Olympic Buzkashi Federation — thanks to my well-connected translator — doubt didn’t enter into the decision to jump on a buzkashi horse when the challenge was thrown down by the president, despite being the only female around. Often without thinking, just the natural rhythm of being true to myself took over.

My VIV Moment occurred on the plane ride home when I realized I was ready to really commit to the role of founder and leader of Mountain to Mountain. I accepted that I do, in fact, want to “save the world.” After discovering that education has the potential to lead the way out of poverty, abuse and even conflict, I am determined to empower women and children in Afghanistan.

So far, the organization has created a computer lab at a girls’ secondary school in Kabul and another at Kabul University. Projects also are underway to improve and expand a literacy and education program in a women’s prison and to establish a headquarters for the Afghanistan National Association of the Deaf.

There are no rose-colored glasses when I look at Afghanistan. There is dirt and dust, squalor and poverty, gender inequality, corruption and crime. Yet I see the magical quality in this small corner of the world — a crossroads where diverse cultures and races intertwine. I want to inspire others to see beyond the war and terrorism, and see the amazing people working to change their own country’s path, the children that need schools and the artists that strive to keep Afghanistan’s culture alive.

Finally, I spotted an incredibly beautiful baby with thick black hair being carried to us from across the room. I was weeping uncontrollably when they placed her in my husband’s arms. Molly was 10 months old and had spent her whole life in an orphanage. She was calm and constantly played with her fingers; we guessed that they had been her only playthings in her crib. We fed her (she was very hungry), and then we carried her around the room, talking to her, showing her sights out the window.

Just like that, we were a family. I was a mother. She was our daughter. I loved her instantly, completely. All my worries and all the waiting disappeared as if they had never happened. She was happy, easy, alert, curious and very funny. Although she had developmental delays, she caught up quickly. In those first few days I was feeling a kind of love and a depth of joy that I had never known.

About a year before the day we met Molly, a friend of mine who had adopted a baby girl from China had told me the legend of the red thread. In China, there’s an ancient belief that when a baby’s born she’s connected to everyone she’ll ever know by an invisible red thread. The thread can stretch or tangle, but it will never break. This powerful idea touched me deeply, and I found myself writing a song and eventually an album called The Red Thread (Red House Records, 2004). The album was really about the threads between me and the daughter I hadn’t yet met; the thread between me and my wonderful husband; the threads between me and my parents, who were reaching the end of their lives, and the threads between me and my fellow New Yorkers in the wake of 9/11.

I’ve recently been given the opportunity to expand on this theme artistically, in collaboration with a wonderful beauty company called La Prairie. I wrote and recorded a song called “Life Threads,” inspired by their new fragrance line of the same name, which evokes a similar idea that what matters most in life are the ties that bind us together.

I have learned since becoming Molly’s mother — really since that day that I wept as they brought her to Rick and me in that office in China — that those threads, those ties, are the most important and meaningful in my life. My daughter has taught me that most important lesson, once and for all.

Photo credit: C. Taylor Crothers

Because I was afraid to say anything, I wrote poems about what I was going through. I didn’t open up to anyone else about the abuse until I was in my 30s. I felt I was doing alright until my little brother was killed in a motorcycle accident in 2003. That triggered a series of suicide attempts — I would run my vehicle off the road, but that caused only some damage to my truck. One day in 2006, shortly before my 44th birthday, I decided to drown myself. The last thing I remember is lowering myself into the river. I woke up in the hospital. A volunteer fireman had been fishing on the banks and saw me float by and rescued me. The doctors told me I was lucky to survive, without water getting into my lungs or suffering any brain damage.

Whatever is at the other end of this life wasn’t ready for me. I realized during that time that I needed to change. I couldn’t give up. Doctors say I was lucky to get this second chance, but I still didn’t know what to do.

Fortunately, after the last suicide attempt, I was placed in a psychological hospital and received therapy at a healthcare facility, where I could get the help that I needed. During a therapy session, my therapist and I were discussing coping skills and how they help. I thought of my poems I’d written as a product of my abuse and showed her one of them. After she read it, she suggested that I get them published and then re-read them to see how I reacted, to see how I felt and to see if they triggered flashbacks. Looking them over, I thought, “Wow, I actually wrote these.” I had disassociated myself from those poems; it was as if somebody else — the little girl inside of me — had written them.

Several weeks went by and I was in another therapy session discussing coping skills with a new group, and there again I showed them some of my work. They, too, suggested that I get the poems published. I got to thinking, “All these people can’t be wrong — and besides, what is it going to hurt?”

I took my best work, put it together and submitted it to AuthorHouse Publishing and six months later, A Survivor’s Tale (AuthorHouse, 2009) was delivered to my door. It was fantastic — even though the book is self-published, I somehow couldn’t believe I was holding it in my hands. The poems are grouped into chapters detailing my journey, from “The Early Years” to “Dark Moments” to “Guidance and Support.” With these poems that helped me cope with abuse, I want to give a voice to victims and survivors who don’t have voices. I want to let them know that they’re not alone and that there’s help for them.

Throughout the morning the fog lifted, and though there were threatening clouds in the sky, we went ahead with the ceremony outside, underneath a large oak tree, overlooking the Berkshire Hills and countryside. It was a short, yet lovely ceremony, and my 3-year-old niece added levity by dumping her basket of flowers while we said our vows.

This photo shows my husband and me, immediately after the ceremony, being showered with rose petals. All the tension and nervousness of the morning had evaporated away, and, like magic, the sun emerged from behind the gray clouds. The many doubts and worries I’d entertained the night before seemed to vanish into the air. The day got progressively sunnier and more beautiful from that instant on. In that moment, I knew that we were prepared for any challenge that lay ahead. The sun was going to shine upon us as a couple, we were going to make it. In that moment it all began — we were married, it wasn’t going to rain on our party and we were filled with hope and joy and love.

She proceeded to tell me how unfair her life was, how limited she felt being the oldest sister of three disabled siblings. She wanted to do things “normal” families do and go places “normal” families go — outings like going to the movies or walking through the mall, or attending school functions or community celebrations, all of which were out of the question for our family as a whole. She cried and I held her in my arms.

I gently told her how fortunate she was to be able to do all the things children do, like hang out with friends, swing on the monkey bars and go bike riding. I explained that when she turned 16, she would be getting her driver’s license, that she would date and eventually fall in love. And that one day she would move away from the challenges of our family and have a family of her own. How lucky she was to be able to do these things.

I then reminded her of the many ways in which her siblings were limited. “They will never have friends, not the way you do,” I told her. “They will never be able to walk to the park by themselves, or ride a bike. They will never be able to play sports, or read a book, or sing a song — they can’t even talk. And they will never go on dates, or to prom, or ever fall in love.” As I spoke the words, I felt myself realizing these things for the first time, realizing the precious life experiences my disabled children would never have. And I realized the experiences I, as their mother, would never have with them, like watching them play baseball, or receive a school award, graduate high school, or hear them say the words, “I love you, Mom.” These experiences would never be mine. Never. And for the first time, I truly felt the loss. As we lay there in that cramped, quiet bedroom, my little girl held me in her arms, and we both wept.

My heart changed forever that night, leaving me with a rare and profound sense of gratitude. Gratitude for all the things we take for granted, like being able to talk, to read, to learn and to love. I vowed I would never forget these things or how I felt that night. I determined to never dismiss or belittle the blessings in my life, however seemingly small. I promised myself that I would celebrate all the things my children could do, for their simple and hard-earned milestones. Maybe they couldn’t talk, but they could smile and laugh and be loved. And that was worth more than any words they could ever say.

Being the mother of three disabled children is like living simultaneously on both ends of a very large spectrum. It’s the most devastatingly horrible, remarkably beautiful experience, full of profound lows and transcendent highs, wrapped in a series of unpredictable moments, struggles, and triumphs.

The daily experience is one of 24-hour caregiving, changing diapers, feeding, bathing, behavior management, sleepless nights, therapies, doctors, medications, caseworkers, respite providers, special education, heavy financial impact and trying to maintain your sanity. There are days when all you can do is survive because you’re so depleted from taking care of everyone else that you don’t know if you can go another day. You feel ostracized and isolated from “normal” mothers with “normal” children, and you wonder if there’s life outside your front door.

But there are also exquisite moments when you celebrate these special children, when you realize what truly matters and how fortunate you are to see a side of life that most people will never see. You find strength you didn’t know you had, and a kind of love you didn’t know existed. There are moments when you don’t have any answers at all, and then there are those illuminating moments when the innocence in your teenage son’s childlike eyes seems to reveal the mysteries of the universe.

There are tears and laughter, loss and love; where every morning you brace for impact, struggle to survive, and somehow discover you’ve developed wisdom and rare insight along the way. Your eyes are opened to the world around you very vividly and you see that we all have “special needs,” there is no such thing as “normal,” and everyone has something to teach.

Photo credit: Jeff Nicholson

I used HypnoBirthing as my breathing method and all the nurses commented on how I was handling the contractions amazingly well — until about 9 pm, that is, when I needed the epidural. I later learned that that was when I went from 5 cm to 10 cm in about two hours. I was incredibly grateful for the epidural to say the least! Around 11 pm or so, the nurse called our doctor and I started gently pushing shortly after. At 12:53 am on June 2, little Luc arrived into this world crying out loud to let us know he had a good set of lungs. He was absolutely perfect and we are in love!

My husband and I named him Luc Allen-Manley Mathes. Allen is his father’s and paternal grandfather’s middle name, and Manley is his maternal grandfather’s surname. His name means “a handsome light from the hero’s meadow” and we think it fits him perfectly! His daddy was happy to cut the cord and help me throughout the whole labor. He was awesome!

I’m grateful to everyone who helped assist me in my journey to motherhood. Our nurse, Laura, was amazing, I will never forget her encouragement and support, and our OB, Dr. Ruedrich, was absolutely wonderful for the entire nine months and we are so thankful for his knowledge and guidance. And our parents and my sister stayed up all night with us to be there to meet Luc and welcome him into the world! We truly felt blessed and surrounded by love throughout the entire experience. Welcome, little Luc. We love you!

SJS also causes blindness; you can also go deaf and, in many instances, you can die. I was in the hospital for about a week. As I was lying in bed in a painkiller haze, I overhead the doctor say, “Oh no, it’s on her face and possibly in her eyes.” I lay there and thought, “I may become blind because of this and look like a burn victim from the scarring or even die.” I have been so careful in my life and it didn’t matter. I am the kind of person who calculates everything. I am very careful about what I do. I overthink every situation in the present and future. If I am involved with a guy, for instance, I will go over every possible scenario in my head — good and bad. I always believed in life you have to be very responsible, cautious and sensible. If you exhibit those characteristics, then you’ll stay safe. That day, I realized no matter what you do you cannot control every situation. 

All sorts of thoughts and regrets went racing through my head. I didn’t have a partner because I was too apprehensive and focused on what could go wrong in a relationship. I hadn’t traveled to Europe because I focused on the dangers of traveling outside the country, etc. I had a glimpse of what it would be like as an elderly person on her deathbed, experiencing all the thoughts and regrets. When you are bedridden, all you have are your thoughts. It just hit me that my life could be very different from now on. I may look like a burn victim. I thought, “If I go blind, I will never see Europe.”

The doctors tell me now they are shocked they were able to reverse the syndrome. They tell me had I went to the hospital even 10 minutes later, I would have permanent scarring and possibly gone blind. I, of course, feel like something in the Universe gave me a second chance. The Universe was telling me to live my life and to stop being scared. Bad things can happen no matter what you do. I know it’s a cliché, but I realized I needed to stop overthinking and just live my life to the fullest.

I contacted a whole bunch of people I knew from college living in the area and planned a party. All of them showed up. When I told them how unhappy I had been, everyone started to encourage me to move to New York. I told them I was considering L.A. New York felt too difficult and far away. But they persisted. As my plane left a few days later, I looked down at Manhattan a little wistfully. Could I move there? Would it be better?

Back in San Francisco, as my plane pulled into the gate, I searched through my cell phone for someone to whom I could announce my arrival, or even make plans with for drinks. None of the numbers I saw staring back at me were numbers I wanted to call. The lonely feeling I had come to know so well returned to my stomach. When I got home to my apartment, I turned on my computer. There were about 15 messages from my friends in New York with links to websites for jobs, apartments and hot online daters. All of the sudden it hit me. I didn’t have to be lonely. I had friends. There were people in the world that loved and made me feel special. I had given San Francisco a fair try. It hadn’t worked. It was not my city. Two months later I moved.

A year later I flew back to San Francisco for a wedding. On the way back to New York, as we looped around the city before making our descent into La Guardia I had the greatest feeling in my stomach in quite some time. I was home!

When my grandmother died about three years ago, she left me a beautiful vintage black lace dress. My mother told me that it was her favorite dress. I had it tailored to fit and waited for the right occasion to wear it.

Soon after, my cousin got married in the same chapel where our grandparents were married in Sydney, so I pulled out the dress for the wedding. At the time, I was living in Los Angeles.

At the reception at the Sydney Opera House I stood on the terrace having a quiet moment by myself as I had not been home for a long time.

I was struck by the importance of family and history. I said a prayer for my grandmother, thanked her for the dress, and asked for a sign if she could see me in it. Suddenly, a big, bright fireworks display in the shape of a heart burst out of the Harbour Bridge and shone down on me, and I knew I was home. I recently moved back and bought a place in Sydney so now I am truly “home.”