In my last column, I wrote about amor fati–the radical acceptance of life’s path–and the daring Kretser sisters who embrace ice baths and bureaucratic upheaval with grace. Amor fati means embracing even life’s hardships. But where’s the sweet spot between acceptance and intuitive agency?

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Bon Voyage

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For my twentieth birthday, my parents bought me a plane ticket to visit my then-boyfriend in Maryland. I called him to share the great news.

“Oh… wow. When?” he said.

“Fourth of July,” I replied.

This was followed by the kind of pause that should make you break up and hang up.

“I sorta have plans that week in Ocean City,” he said.

“I know. We talked about going together all semester.” More silence. “You do want me to visit, right?”

“You are welcome to come,” he said stiffly.

“Okay, well… I’ll come. I mean, the tickets are non-refundable.”

I wasn’t about to admit I’d made a mistake–but even radical acceptance has its limits. So began the internal debate I call…

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Should I Stay or Should I Go

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In the days leading up to my trip, I overrode instinct with logical analysis, losing both the battle and the war.

I made his excuses. I bright-sided like mad. He wasn’t a phone person. He was tired. He had family issues. He’d be much better face-to-face. Remember all the good times we had when I was letting him copy my homework and buying him lunch? I pictured us strolling hand-in-hand. I was gonna have a great birthday (damn it).

When I stumbled off the plane at Dulles, I was running on fumes.

My chest was tight, and I had a mind-blowing migraine. I systematically filed my body’s warning signs under the suck-it-up mantra of the ’80s.

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Flags and Froyo

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The first green flag of a beach-bound catastrophe was exiting the plane with fresh lip gloss and new sandals to exactly no one. My anticipation of flowers and an apology hug was replaced with a sympathy bowl of Froyo as I wandered the terminal for two hours.

I found a pay phone. His dad answered: “Amy who?”

Apparently, my existence and arrival were yellow flags. Pete the neighbor picked me up an hour later.

Ocean City was your standard romantic eight-person getaway: us and six of his buddies.

We raced to the salty surf, and I had a great birthday vacation for half an hour. Smiling and jogging back to my towel, I noticed a second group of friends had joined us. Then I was introduced to a very tall pink bikini, otherwise known as my boyfriend’s girlfriend. Yes, you read that correctly.

“We need to talk. Now,” I said, pulling him aside. “How exactly is she your girlfriend when I’m your girlfriend?”

“I tried to tell you when you called–I had plans this week.”

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Splinters and Sledgehammers

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I walked away. The sledgehammer that lives in my prefrontal cortex pounded a familiar beat: I knew it, I knew it.

I trudged along the sand and spray and decided to get myself out of Ocean City.

Waiting by my beach towel was another flag: riptide red.

Everyone–and the car–was gone. So was my backpack and wallet. I had one towel, a pair of shorts, and flip-flops to my name.

I walked the boardwalk. The sun set in ironic rose hues, and my humiliation solidified like cement.

At 8 o’clock, I traded my flip-flops for a sad bean burrito–lukewarm, understuffed, and hard to digest.

At 10 o’clock, I made a collect call to my bestie-cousin Pat, who can switch into Go Mode like a hummingbird on espresso.

When we’re a hot mess, we’re out of alignment with our navigational system. I needed a North Star.

I explained.

“I will get in my car right now and come get you,” she said.

“No, that is ridiculous. You can’t drive here. You have kids. And vet school,” I said, secretly wanting her to get in the car and come get me. Someone else could study puppies.

“You sure?” she said.

“I’m fine.”

I felt very unfine. I didn’t have shoes, but I did have my pride.

I found a bench and spent the night pulling splinters from my feet and telling various police officers I was not loitering. I waited for a miracle–which arrived the next morning in the form of Pete the neighbor, who remembered they’d left me and drove me back to the airport.

Where does radical acceptance end and self-preservation begin?

Amor fati asks us to embrace every twist of fate–but sometimes, fate sends up flares. Our inner compass, that gut instinct, isn’t always noise to be tuned out. It can be a quiet warning, saving us from more than just a bland burrito.

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Jenny, the Titanic’s Cat

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Jenny, the Titanic’s ship cat, is a tale of fact and folklore.

She gave birth just before departure, as witnessed by her caregiver, stoker Jim Mulholland. A few days later, he saw her carrying her kittens off the ship. He took it as a sign–and left too, saving his life.

What did Jim Mulholland have that kept him off the very sinkable ship? According to Bren Brown, research professor at the University of Houston, he had the ability to find stillness amid constant stimulation. He found a space to listen.

“We suppress our inner voice in favor of what feels socially acceptable,” says Brown.

I was guilty of that–hiding behind a non-refundable ticket.

We live in a culture that bows to logic and punctuality, while intuition gets the brush-off. Amor fati teaches us to love our fate–but loving it doesn’t mean ignoring the flags along the way.

When all systems say NO, don’t wait for the foghorn. Your inner Jenny the Cat might be the only thing standing between you and splinters.