Write Spaces: Kimpton Sylvan Hotel
photography // KIAH MCBRIDE
Sometimes I take stillness for granted.
The constant noise outside of my four walls is often in competition with the noise from within. The chirp of the phone alerting me of a text message. The periodic soundtrack of rants and raves, laughter, and 15-second sound clips as I scroll through my timeline.
Even things that are meant to be silent are loud AF. A quiet prayer or moment of deep reflection turns into a rush of thoughts crescendoing to a point where I become overwhelmed. And thus, I find myself seeking to do simpler tasks— clean the dishes for the umpteenth time. Oh, it’s after twelve, time to get the mail! — in a feeble attempt to distract me from my own thoughts. And that’s just on the weekend.
During the week there’s an added layer of meetings, minute tasks, and project deadlines that pile in from my nine-to-five. And that’s in addition to the everyday burdens of life. And yet somehow, I’m still supposed to be creative after all of this. I’m supposed to sit down after a long day of pumping and dumping energy into every other facet of my life and create something brilliant that will make opening up apps worthwhile for those who choose to tune into my visual diary. Ironically, the very thing that I have the least time to focus on is what brings me the most joy. I’m not complaining though, I’m working on changing that last line. For I refuse to believe that turning CEOs into billionaires while the rest of us struggle to keep up with inflation is my destiny (seriously, the company I work for got acquired for $12 billion, of which those who toiled for years were given pennies). To do so comes with sacrifice. Saying no to things that don’t align with my future. Saying yes to opportunities that sometimes scare me.
And in the case of a day like today, it means embracing the fact that sometimes I simply need a change of environment. To leave the comfort of my home for places and spaces that inspire, but don’t distract. I’ve always found hotels to be a perfect match. So I hopped on Hotel Tonight to see if there were any deals in my area for a one-night staycation. A deal of the day for The Kimpton Sylvan Hotel had me spending $30 less than I would’ve if I had booked with the other discount brands (this isn’t an ad, but feel free to use my discount code: KMCBRIDE66 to save a little coin on your first stay). I packed just enough to feed my creativity, and committed a set time to write and work in between exploring the property.
I realize that I need more days like this. Whether it’s taking a day to play in my own backyard or hopping on a plane and wandering elsewhere, I need to leave behind the mundane and get that little taste of magic that keeps me going. Or at the very least, keeps me from falling victim to my own diversions.
Featured Location // The Kimpton Sylvan Hotel // Get $25 off when you book your stay with Hotel Tonight with code: KMCBRIDE66.
Next Stop: Chateau Elan
The older I get, the more I desire occasional moments of celebrating myself, by myself, which may seem contradictory given that I spent the last week surrounded by lots of love, laughter, and beautiful ladies.
“What are you doing for your actual birthday?” seemed to be the question of the month.
Kind of a bittersweet topic given that I had actually planned to hop on a plane to Puerto Rico. But undesirable circumstances had me cancelling flights and a hotel stay, and opting for a solo retreat instead.
Chateau Elan had been on my bucket list for some time now, yet despite many discussions of spa days and girl’s getaways, nobody pulled the trigger on traveling to the destination that lies just 40 minutes up the road. It’s honestly a characteristic I’m personally not proud of— always saying what I want to do and finding excuses not to do it. Many beautiful experiences are missed waiting on someone else to plan them. So I decided that at 32, I was no longer holding myself hostage to anyone’s uncertainties. Besides, I value my alone time, and what better way to ring in thirty-new than in quiet solitude while living in the lap of luxury?
And so, the morning of my birthday I found myself praising God for blessing me with another year of life as I drove out of the city and through the wrought iron gates of the resort property. I brunched at the Fleur de Lis before catching a shuttle ride up to the winery for a tour and tasting.
Though I was the only solo person in the group, I somehow found myself embraced by a squad of girls celebrating their own birthdays. The energy magnetic, it was no surprise that a few glasses of wine later, the remaining ladies on the tour left their husband’s sides to come vibe with us. It’s a known fact that Aquarians tend to be the life of the party (I’ve found myself in the middle of dance floors more than I care to mention lol). But I wasn’t there to be social, I was there to relax and give myself a much-needed break from energies outside of my own.
Back at the spa, I checked into my loft-style room, sipped the last of my champagne (they really know how to treat a girl), and lived my best bourgeois life in the hot tub where I met yet another birthday babe who was also enjoying a solo stay.
A morning latte and Swedish massage had me feeling good the next day, but as we know, all good things must come to an end—at least in time for new beginnings. So as I bid farewell to the villas and vineyards, I left knowing that this was just the start of a life I’ve always felt destined to live. No longer was I idly waiting to get everything I deserve.
Next Stop: Hilton Head Island
photography // MIRACLE LILLEY
creative direction // KIAH MCBRIDE
location // HILTON HEAD ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA
I thought of a hundred reasons why I shouldn’t go.
Too busy. Too tired. Too broke. Too far of a drive. A million and one excuses flipping through my head like a sizzle reel. Yet all it took was for me to find that one reason for me to go—a much-needed weekend getaway with my best friend and her family, one that was sure to be filled with good laughs, good food, and good stories to tell.
Sold.
A couple of weeks later I was flying down I-75 towards the Carolina coast. As a North Carolina native, I’m no stranger to South Carolina beaches. But while Myrtle Beach was a regular destination in my youth, Hilton Head Island has remained a foreign place to me. Though it ain’t quite the same as jetsetting across the globe, I’ve found that the most beautiful places exist in our own backyards, or in this case, a four-hour drive south of Atlanta.
The most beautiful places exist in our own backyards.
I watched as sugar maples transformed into live oak trees dripped in Spanish moss—a sight so intriguing yet simultaneously creepy as I recounted ghost stories told from Savannah graves less than an hour away. Some centuries ago my ancestors died for me to walk barefoot on these sandy white beaches.
Before vacationers flocked to the island every summer, free Gullah families (descendents of West African slaves from the Gula tribe of Liberia and Sierra Leone)
settled on the island and held their own.
They were the first ex-slaves to earn wages in exchange for their labor. They owned land and fished to feed their families; probably not much different than the crabbing we did from the Harbour Town pier.
Back then they gathered in 396 square foot homes on a quarter acre of land. On this particular weekend we spread ourselves across a 3,600 square foot vacation home. Their history is so rich that they afforded us this luxury.
And I can’t help but wonder if, some time ago, they too were shooting the shit over a game of Spades and bowls of Goulash and Jambalaya. Knowing that this was the place that Gullah Gullah Island was based off of makes me appreciate the show of my childhood more. I still sing the theme song in my head.
Lets all go to Gullah, Gullah Island,
Gullah, Gullah, Gullah, Gullah!
Two days wasn’t enough time for a true vacation, but it was just enough time for me to reconsider living inland. I’m a child of the water, I come alive when I’m just footsteps away from it. It’s hypnotic, a reminder of the ebbs and flows of life. That tides do turn, and in my case, hopefully for the better.
And because of that, it’s imperative for me to leave. Because unlike the Gullahs, who bury their dead along waterways so that their spirits can be carried back to the motherland with which they were stolen from, I’m not ready to go home. I have too much to do, too much to accomplish, too much purpose—I have my own history to make.
Next Stop: Boston
photography // KIAH MCBRIDE
location // BOSTON
I travel because I thirst for experiences. A certified nomad I don’t know how to sit still, I just know how to get up and go--no fear, nothing holding me back. In fact, I’m the most free when I’m not being confined to one city. I like going places I don’t normally go. No bucket list, I want to see it all. I don’t believe in limitations, you never know what you’ll get from traveling to the unexpected and exploring the unknown. A life mantra.
I touched down in Boston on an early afternoon. After a three-hour plane ride to the melody of a screaming baby I was more than ready to hit the ground running. I didn’t exactly grow up watching baseball, so the Red Sox was of minor interest to me. And the Celtics weren’t my chosen team, but thanks to grandpa I knew the names of Bill Russell, Larry Bird and Kevin Garnett.
Boston wasn’t on my top destinations list either, but one thing I’ve learned about life is that every place has something to show you—either about its history, its culture, or simply yourself. It’s rare that I ever leave a city less knowledgeable than I arrived, and conversations with locals rarely fail to be interesting.
Especially ones with rideshare drivers. As an UberEats driver myself (don’t judge me), I know that the average driver isn’t simply there just for shits and giggles. They’re either seeking something, running towards something, or running away from something--and the entrepreneur-esque lifestyle is the perfect vehicle to get wherever they’re going.
My first driver, Sami, shared his story of transition from LA to colder territories. He hated the lack of diversity of the city (“too white,” he said while pushing a pale hand through dark hair), and felt guilty about not wanting to get out of bed at 6AM to hit the running trails that is characteristic of Bostonians.
“I hate waking up early.” Me too.
I pointed out that at least he’s near the water. Something that I truly miss about my time in LA. Despite my couple of years of being a 30-minute drive away I didn’t hit the beach for Instagram-worthy thirst trap shots as much as I said I would, or visit the coastal cities that sprinkled the western coast—a reminder that we often take the smallest things for granted. Instead I traded in salt water for hot and sticky summers where sweat trickled down my spine before 9AM. Being in the south has its perks, but relaxing summers isn’t one of them.
A short ride later we pulled up to the Boston Park Plaza.
“Oh you’re in a good area. You’ll love it,” Sami said, plopping my suitcase on the sidewalk.
The hotel has this grandeur about it. An elegance that appeals to my inner bourgeois. And though the lobby is more spectacular than the room I had, there was a softness about it. Besides, just a few months ago I was unemployed and unable to afford my own room, nor was I actually paying for this trip (perks of my job). I was Issa, not Molly. I wasn’t in a position to be picky.
Plus my brick wall and across-the-street-office-building view made stripteasing and twerking to trap music in front of open blinds more enticing. I have a thing for natural light. Hopefully, a Kim Kardashian photo of my naturally light-skinned breasts won’t end up somewhere on the Internet. (But if you see them, pass them my way. They way my bank account is set up I need to collect a royalty check, please and thank you.)
I wanted to nap, but my grumbling stomach said otherwise. Legal Sea Foods seemed to be the best option a short walking distance away. Ironically I would end up at the same restaurant, three times in three different locations throughout my trip. It’s funny how we’re creatures of habit, comfortable in our cycles, even when we don’t intend to be.
“It’s funny how we’re creatures of habit, comfortable in our cycles.”
The daytime hours of my three-night stay were primarily spent attending a conference. At night I joined my newly-made acquaintances of ranging brown hues. Even in a strange land we formed a community (waddup #BlackAtInbound!)--clinking sangria, margarita and glasses of Hennessey as if we were old friends, discussing our shock over Janet Jackson and Bobby (the two-part BET Bobby Brown series came on during our stay) and diving deeper into other cultural discussions over warm bread and, you guessed it, food.
I did duck off for a few hours at one point. I didn’t come to New England just to travel back and forth to a convention center. I craved exploration. And while I didn’t get a chance to take a river cruise or find me a sugar daddy in Martha’s Vineyard, I did get yelled at by an older white man as I attempted to snap photos in the famed cobblestone Acorn Street (so much for the sugar daddy). I skimmed past brick brownstones typically characteristic of New York boroughs as I quickly navigated my way out of the obviously-expensive neighborhood. A black girl with locs and a DSLR camera slung over her shoulder didn’t belong there.
But I did belong in the library, which is where I was eagerly headed when a voice begging for money called out, grinding me to a halt. Okay so I did speed-walk past said voice the first time, pretending not to hear his cries for food. I, too, was hungry--and not exactly in a financial position to give. But then again, when you have more than the next you’re always the person of abundance. And if I got it, I’ll give it. So I backtracked to the grungy character, who at six-feet towered above me with straggly gray strands, pale skin and tattered clothes.
“You got any money? I’d like to eat and nobody will stop.”
“How about Panera Bread? I can get you some food. I don’t think I have any cash.” I was ready to whip out my debit card. I prefer to feed someone knowing that the money is going to a good place as opposed to feeding a bad habit.
He shifted on the balls of his feet. “I can’t really eat real meals, only snacks. Whenever I eat a meal it makes my stomach hurt.”
“Maybe you just need something healthier,” I said, starting down my usual path of preaching nourishing cuisine, then stopped myself. This man didn’t need a lecture; he needed someone who cared.
I stopped glancing around for a place to get snacks and pulled out my purse, not quite sure of what I had, if anything since money seems to leave my wallet quicker than Sallie Mae comes after her loans. But I did have something. A handful of dollar bills that I had pulled out earlier that week, thinking that I would be able to wash my car before leaving town. Luxury.
I started to pull out a couple of singles, but glanced at the man again and pulled out the whole stack ($6), folding it into his hands.
“Don’t do nothing bad with it, okay?” I said, looking him adamantly in the eye.
“Oh no, I won’t, I promise,” he said with a toothy smile. He thanked me, and as I started to walk away shouted, “I love your hair. You girls do so much cool stuff with your hair nowadays. I wish I could do that.”
I smiled and waved goodbye, silently happy that I was able to help, even if only a little bit.
Air-conditioner blasting, the library was cool and a nice break from the heat, its centuries-old books smelling like rich history and must--a welcoming scent. I quietly captured the iconic Bates Hall with its seemingly endless row of green lamps, and slipped into the Abbey Room before stepping out into the warm afternoon air. I walked back to my hotel to change (in front of open window) before catching a ride to meet up with my newfound conference crew.
This time I climbed in the car with Sabir--a young Brazilian immigrant who came to the country eight months prior after finding out his fiancé cheated on him with his best friend. Shit. America was his escape from a drug addiction that he picked up in the midst of his emotional downward spiral. And now he was picking people for a living as a part of his recovery process.
“I didn’t speak any English when I first came here,” he said in a thick accent. “I went to Las Vegas first and couldn’t get any work, then came here and started driving Lyft. I still didn’t know much English. I would have my riders teach me little words here and there like door and mirror, and learned along the way.”
“I didn’t even know who the Patriots were. I had a scarf that someone had given me laying across here,” he gestured his hand across the dashboard. “I just liked the colors, but people kept asking me about the Patriots, and so finally I said who are these Patriots?!” We both laughed, me more so because I hardly knew myself.
“Anyway, English is a beautiful language, but I still struggle with it. I’m going to school to learn so I can talk better with my customers.”
I told him he spoke wonderfully and that I wished I could learn his language instead. And I meant it. I always feel a bit ashamed of not being multilingual (I do speak some Spanish), as if I think I’m too good to humble myself and learn a language beyond my own, especially when in another country, or shoot when in America, another neighborhood.
We pulled up to my destination, and as I got out I wished him luck with finding the right woman. He smiled hopefully. We all need someone who genuinely loves us.
“We all share this desire for love, for acceptance, and for community. ”
That’s one thing I love about traveling. With every conversation--no matter the destination or differences in racial ethnicities or environmental backgrounds--I’m reminded that we all desire the same basic human necessities--not just physically, but emotionally. We all share this desire for love, for acceptance, and for community. We’re all wanting to be seen or heard, to know that we matter. And despite language and cultural barriers, we’re all divinely connected. And that’s something not to be taken for granted.
Staycation
photography // KIAH MCBRIDE
location // TOPANGA, CALIFORNIA
It started out with one simple thought: I need a vacation.
Which may sound weird considering I live in sunny L.A. I’m less than an hour from beautiful beaches, a drive through the mountains towards Vegas, a couple of hours from a desert oasis, and yet still I felt this need to escape, to go somewhere different.
But despite not having the funds, I knew I that if I didn’t at least get one day where I wasn’t surrounded by the temptation of work and play that I was going to lose it. But despite not having the funds, I knew I that if I didn’t at least get one day where I wasn’t surrounded by the temptation of work and play that I was going to lose it. But despite not having the funds, I knew I that if I didn’t at least get one day where I wasn’t surrounded by the temptation of work and play that I was going to lose it.
But despite not having the funds, I knew I that if I didn’t at least get one day where I wasn’t surrounded by the temptation of work and play that I was going to lose it. But despite not having the funds, I knew I that if I didn’t at least get one day where I wasn’t surrounded by the temptation of work and play that I was going to lose it.But despite not having the funds, I knew I that if I didn’t at least get one day where I wasn’t surrounded by the temptation of work and play that I was going to lose it.
But I could see my bank account flashing red at the thought of me spending another dime on something more extravagant like Hawaii or the Caribbean. My splurges are occasional these days, because when you’re chasing a life filled with purpose, it often comes at the sacrifice of comfortable living, big paychecks, and the certainty that comes from settling—at least at first.
But despite not having the funds, I knew I that if I didn’t at least get one day where I wasn’t surrounded by the temptation of work and play that I was going to lose it.
I needed to be somewhere quiet. I needed to get away from the world. But I needed to do so on a budget, which meant staying close to home.
Remembering the credit that I had accumulated I logged into my Airbnb account and began searching for a spot close by that fit the vibe I was going for—relaxed, peaceful, a beautifully designed fuck-you to the real world that continuously pulled me into its daily shenanigans of the passionless and the pseudo-political. I had a small credit that I had accumulated on my cross-country jaunt to L.A just the year prior, so with a strict budget in mind I began my search, and I found the perfect spot.
It was only 20 minutes away, nestled in the hills of Topanga Canyon. The reviews were raving, the vibe said “come chill out,” and the promise of having my chakras taken care of made me a tad bit curious. Not to mention that my muscles had already started relaxing at the thought of soaking in the deep tub that has become such a luxury after living in a place with no A/C that forced me to leave windows open, allowing a constant layer of dirt to settle around the tub of my own place. So I booked the spot and packed my bags just a week later.
To do a staycation right—if not in your home, you have to make it feel like home. I slipped my favorite candle into to my bag along with bath salts, bubble bath, and a loofah. My slippers couldn’t be left behind, nor could my essential oils.
I arrived at what the owner deemed the “White Rose House” in the early afternoon when the sun was on its descent to the other side of the earth. She wasn’t home at first, but the gate was cracked so I let myself in to the little guest room that was just off of the main house. I silently exclaimed a “hell yeah” as I opened the door to the bright white room—it was just as describe—serene, peaceful, and begging for someone to partake into me-time.
The owner arrived shortly thereafter, offering cookies and informing me that I was open to the backyard and her home at any time. I thanked her and ducked back into my temporary oasis, eager for some time away from people.
I quickly made the spot my home, pulling out my laptop, journal, and book that I would be diving into for the first time in months, because, distractions. When night time came, I ran the bath water, lit my candles, and turned on my Staycation playlist to set the mood.
I relaxed.
I indulged.
I released everything that wasn’t contributing to my progression—doubtful thoughts, draining people, and energies that were keeping me off my path of purpose. Before I left in the morning the owner offered me an Angelic cleanse, it was different, but added to the uniqueness of the experience.
My staycation was brief, but it was just enough to get me back focused. That’s the great thing about getting away, even just for a moment, you realign yourself with what truly matters and disconnect from what doesn’t. You find that peace comes from within, it’s the outside influences that you allow into your life that push you into a chaotic place. Sometimes you just need to dip off for a minute and clear your head in order to get back in the game.
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I Let Go of My Fear and Moved to L.A.
The last three years have been preparation for this one moment--cruising down I-10 towards LA, car packed, money low but faith high. My ride or die next to me as we move towards fulfilling our individual purposes. It all seems so surreal. This time last year I was working a job that I hated, making excuses as to why I should hang around just a bit longer. The money was good, the benefits on point, the city affordable, but my passion depleted. I've talked about moving to LA for the longest, but the truth is a part of me was scared to take such a huge leap, to move over 2,400 miles away from family, friends, and comfort. To chase the unknown with little more than a dollar and a dream. Repeating my mantra of "God's got me" and really believing that shit. I battled doubts, fears, and insecurities just to get here, and I can honestly say that I'm stronger than I've ever been. I spent the last few months at home letting Him work on me and shedding all of the things that has kept me from prospering. Winning the battle over my mind has been the biggest fight thus far, and one that forced me to strip down naked and bare all of my flaws so that I could see the reflection of my imperfections clearly.
Fix this.
Rid of that.
Build this.
Scrap that.
I looked myself in the mirror and for once didn't turn away from the ugliness I saw. Instead I stared back at it like "what bish?!" And when I finally got real, like really real, I began my path to mental and emotional freedom. And I feel damn good right now.
321 miles.
That's how far away I am from a new beginning and 2,100 miles away from the last chapter that ended. I didn't just leave behind family and friends, I left behind the part of me that had to die in order for me to live. And on this journey I realize that too many of us hold onto dead things that bear no fruit: excuses, poor mentalities, unfulfilling relationships and friendships--all for the sake of fear disguised as comfort. Fear of failure, fear of there being nothing better, fear of having to struggle as if we don't struggle with our own mediocrity everyday. Maybe it's just me, but at some point you get tired of settling for good when you can have best.
And I don't have it all figured out. In fact, Every time I told someone I was making this move I was met with questions of how I was going to make it. And I didn't know what to say that didn't make me sound crazy and like I had no fucking clue. I mean, how do you tell people who prefer to wait for the perfect moment that that moment will never come if you don't start moving towards it? That jumping doesn't guarantee you'll land on your feet, it just means you're no longer stagnant. How can I convey that despite the darkness I can see the light and that's the one thing that keeps me going? I gave a general response and decided that I can't tell people how I'm going to win but I can show them. As much as I like to be in the know, I'm at peace with not knowing. It's a much different feeling than the chaos of trying to figure it all out.
Though I'm not naive to the difficulty of the climb, I'm excited about going to the next level. I’m ready to get back out there, to be challenged, to grow, to stumble—maybe even fall, get back up, and keep pressing onwards towards my destiny. If nothing else, I can at least say that I tried. And that I didn’t allow myself to hold me back.