Tacos, Tequila, and the Sacredness of Feeling It All

Last night, I got to do something rare and sacred: slip away with my husband for a night in Charleston. No to-do list. No tight schedule. Just time—and space—to be ourselves again.

We started slow, watching Ace Ventura: Pet Detective while getting ready (and yes, if I could be anyone for a day, it would hands down be Ace). The chaos. The confidence. The commitment to the bit.

Then we made our way to Holy City Brewing for Taco Kombat—an event that felt like it was crafted just for us. Ten tacos. Ten tequila cocktails. A food + drink showdown? Say less.

Right in the middle of it all was my husband’s cousin, Vin (@shotsandvin), slinging oyster shooters with ease and flair. It was fun. It was joy. It was electric—the kind of night that makes your whole body say yes, more of this.

And then: the part I was quietly waiting for.

We saw Murder By Death—my favorite band of all time—on their final farewell tour. I’ve loved them since 2012. Their music has soundtracked so many seasons of my life—the euphoric, the excruciating, the in-between. During their second encore, they played Alas, and I held hands with a woman I’d just met at the start of the set. By the end, we were crying. Hugging. Saying goodbye like old friends even though we’d never see each other again.

We didn’t need life stories. The music made meaning for us. It gave shape to emotion. It let us be human—together.

That’s what art does.

That’s why I do what I do.

We made our way back to our bed and breakfast, slept uninterrupted (a sacred event in itself), and woke up with what I’ll humbly admit was the worst hangover I’ve had in years. I felt ancient. Ridiculous. And also—the most alive I’ve felt in a long time.

And yeah, I know. I’m a “wellness person” waxing poetic about tequila. The irony isn’t lost on me. But wellness isn’t about purity. It’s about wholeness. Integration. Honoring the part of you that needs rest and the part of you that needs to dance, eat, drink, feel, grieve, laugh.

Sometimes healing doesn’t look like stillness and green juice.
Sometimes it looks like tacos and tequila and oyster shooters from a cousin named Vin.
Sometimes it sounds like a cello in a dive bar, or feels like a stranger’s hand in yours as a favorite song ends.

This is why I build the spaces I do—
not to teach people how to be perfect,
but to offer places where we can express, reconnect, and be witnessed in our realness.

Creative Current exists for the whole you.
The soft parts. The messy parts. The parts that long to belong.
And yes—even the part that orders an oyster shooter and says “hell yes” to the moment.

Still recovering, still grateful,
Jess

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