Taking the Long Way Around: A Mother's Journey into Wilderness Therapy and Beyond

In my last entry I offered a metaphor of my daughter and me walking towards one another from opposite ends of the Appalachian Trail. In this essay I'd like to invite you to walk a little way with me.  Many months since our daughter’s time at wilderness and years beyond the original issues that landed her there, my emotions continue to rise and fall much as the tide does.  I don’t have control over the these feelings and I can be knocked down by a big wave of guilt or shame or anger.  I’ve learned what to do when a big rush of emotion comes on--get somewhere safe and quiet and wait for the feelings to subside.  So far they always have. Sometimes the wave will come out of nowhere when I’m falling asleep or taking a walk.  Usually then, the inner dialogue starts up that I failed as a mother: What did I not do or say?  What could I have done differently? Why didn’t she feel she could tell me what was really going on with her?   ...

If you are here reading my blog, I am assuming you have a child in need.  If you only read one book a year this is the one to read. Pozatek can do more for you than I can. Pozatek starts by explaining what the young person in wilderness therapy will experience, then the purpose behind the strategy. Stripped down to the basic tasks that all humans must do to live—lighting fires, getting water, cooking, making shelters etc, the student will have to confront themself and the issues that brought them into this setting.  At the same time, they will be experiencing success: learning to survive in the most basic way. During this process, for all but the most stubborn and troubled, barriers and defenses will crumble. Once this happens, the young person will calm and open up to fresh ideas and possibilities. Having experienced hardship and success they will feel more encouraged to consider ways of being that are likely to work.   A critical point:  The maj...

M id-February and every surface is covered in layers of snow and ice. Stillness.  Even the brook is silent. The only sounds are of wind blowing through trees bare of leaves.  On a sunny day I might hear a steady drip of snow melting off the roof.  I hunker by the wood stove, awed that my child is out in this weather all day every day. The task at hand, to which I am not looking forward, is preparing for the upcoming parent workshop by writing a “transparency” letter to my daughter.  In this letter I’m supposed to tell her how I feel about many aspects of my life—not only what concerns us a family—but what matters to me as an individual, past and present.  The parent therapist has given directions, encouragement, and two aids: a template letter written by a previous parent and a “feelings wheel.”  The template letter is searingly blunt; the contents radiate so much raw emotion that I can hardly bear to read to the end. There’s no fancy stuf...

Our daughter has been in wilderness therapy for more than three weeks and as the immediate relief wears off, there’s an increasingly loud absence. When I walk my dogs I’ve learned that what I notice tends to reflect where I am (or am not and wish I was) or where I need to go.  Around this time I began noticing burrow entrances.  Some were no more than tiny holes beside the path, others, like the one pictured above, were elaborately crafted and inviting, worthy of the Hundred Acre Wood or Mole’s delightful home in The Wind in the Willows. If my psychic space is a house, envision me after those first few weeks standing on the threshold realizing that I’m afraid to go in.  I’m not as ready to be alone as I thought I was.  The space inside my mind is full, but almost every thought relates in some way (sometimes tortuously) to my daughter.  My own affairs have been relegated to a “we’ll see” limbo and, in some cases, squeezed out altogether....

The first communication we receive from our daughter, about a week and a half into her time at in wilderness therapy, is a scan of a handwritten letter that arrives in our email.  Although a copy, there is a sharp physical immediacy in seeing her handwriting which is, surprisingly, as moving and meaningful as the letter’s contents. During these first couple of weeks I am beginning to grasp the rationale of the wilderness way of doing — or, rather, un-doing.  Sure, I had read all the materials, but somehow this letter is the first piece of hard evidence of what a tough process our daughter has undertaken.  Although only a mountain separates us, this is her only way to communicate and she seems very far away. For this generation writing letters by hand is an unfamiliar and awkward way to communicate.  While using pencil and paper has little of the challenge and hardships of the outdoor skills they are learning in wilderness therapy, writing by ha...

A last round of hugs and our daughter disappears down the long hallway to be outfitted with her new equipment and clothing while we walk cautiously across the January ice to our still warm car.  A few minutes ago our family of three walked into True North where our daughter, a young adult, has made the courageous decision to spend three months, mostly outside, during an unusually harsh Vermont winter.  After friendly greetings we stood awkwardly in the reception area until the young woman who was to be our child’s primary therapist bounded up and herded us into the little conference room with four comfy armchairs.  Instantly I get that we are not to prolong this parting. The therapist must be sure that we are all committed, and that our daughter, who is an adult, is here by her own choice.  I glance at my husband but he is wide-eyed and shut-down.  As we pull out of the driveway, we are quiet.  What is there to say?  We know t...