Finding Myself By (Re)Finding My Wild

How A Trip to the Desert Helped Me Out of A Personal Wilderness

BY ARIEL KAZUNAS

This January, I got on a plane to Arizona in tears.

Which, from any outsider’s perspective, did not make any sense. I was heading towards sunshine and gal pals and tacos and new-to-me singletrack. If I were Maria, and the hills were alive, these would certainly be a few of my favorite things. Instead, I was crying for no apparent reason as we took off over the Tetons and banked south.

I say “for no apparent reason” but, honestly, it was more like “for ALL the reasons:”

ICE was terrorizing and murdering people in communities I care about, emboldened by an administration whose rhetoric and policies are divisive and exclusionary, at best.

I had let my guard down, romantically, and been deeply hurt by someone I trusted. 

My job at a conservation organization was a daily reminder (if the historically low snowpack out my door wasn’t enough of one) that the planet I loved and relied on was in crisis, and that the people in power seemed hellbent on only making things worse. 

A friend and beloved community member, Max, had just died in a fluke ski accident, while his brother, also my friend, exhausted himself trying, helplessly, to save him.

And so on. 

All to say that I was overflowing. I could not turn off the emotional tap, could not absorb anything, no matter how small, and so everything was spilling me over — hence all the tears. If I hadn’t felt so guilty about leaving folks hanging by not showing up (I am a Midwesterner after all), I would have canceled the trip all together. I didn’t feel like myself, or at least like the version of myself that could go on adventures, have fun, or be good for anyone.

But the thing about travel is that it tends to shake you up a bit, and in so doing forces you out of your personal ruts and helps you to zoom back out and regain perspective. So while I can’t say I was thriving when we hit the first trailhead, I can say that I opened my Merlin Bird ID app twice before even leaving the parking lot, and snapped a picture of my first saguaro in the wild, and paused to take in the fluorescent hue of the sunrise behind us.

In other words, I was slowly, quietly, almost imperceptibly remembering that there is still magic in the world.

Our first day was full. We were in Arizona to capture the Wild Rye spring and summer 2026 line, so we had to get to multiple spots and change into equally as many outfits on a tight schedule based on lighting and location, all while navigating a city that seemed to stretch endlessly in all directions before abruptly ending in unexpected mountains or whimsical piles of boulders or scrubland steppes that stretched to the horizon and beyond.

I had never participated in a photoshoot like it before, nor had I ever been to Tucson, so I was wide-eyed and, I’ll be the first to admit, completely out of my element. By the time we wrapped and headed to dinner, I was very ready to sit down. As I took a bite of the best tortilla I’d ever eaten, I realized how good it felt for my exhaustion to come from hustle, rather than grief.

That night, after we debriefed the day and prepped for another early wake up the next morning, I checked my phone one last time before heading to bed. That photo I’d snapped of the saguaro? I’d posted to my stories, and a friend (who’d also known Max) had commented simply: "Palate cleanse.”

Those words stuck with me the rest of the trip. From literal new flavors as I sampled my way through everything from popsicles to birria, to the curiosity of an ecosystem that substituted cacti for trees but still called it a “forest,” I was tasting something fresh, and it was much less bitter than the disinterest and malaise upon which I’d been chewing when I’d arrived. 

I couldn’t have described the effect Tucson had on me any better than a literal and figurative palate cleanse, indeed. 

And it made me realize how poignant the inspiration behind the 2026 Wild Rye collection —“find your wild”— really was. Because as they put it: “Wild isn’t a place on a map or a moment in time — it’s the feeling that makes you feel most alive in this one, fleeting life. It shows up when you move with intention, follow curiosity, or listen to the quiet tug in your heart. Wild looks different on everyone, and that’s the point. What matters isn’t how far you go — just that you go at all.”

I can confirm that the going truly is what matters. I left Tucson in very different shape than when I arrived, and for the better. My sadness still lingered, but it was fading, like spice from a tongue, as I drank deep from the rekindled friendships, playful mountain bike trails, big laughs, heartfelt conversations, beautifully bold personalities, otherworldly-but-somehow-of-this-world-and-therefore-even-more-awe-inspiring natural landscapes, and dusty golden hour moments I experienced while I was there. 

And while it may be a bit ironic that (re)finding my wild helped me out of the personal wilderness through which I’d been wallowing, it’s also pretty perfect. There is a difference between being lost and being somewhere new, and remembering the difference between the two helped me map the path back into my own self. 

Find your wild. Cleanse your palate. 

Go.