While I was in France in 2015, I ended up in Albi — a little castle village about an hour from Toulouse.
Benjamin was the CEO of the company that flew me out to speak at the conference. He'd taken a few days off work to show myself and the other international speaker around.
We were eating cheese and melons at his friend's place, which was stacked high with old records and vintage guitars. Benjamin was telling me about the startup scene in Toulouse — in particular, the French Tech Ticket program he was involved in. I'd just spent the last hour playing with his friend's five-year-old son, Nemo, who spoke no English.
Nemo was so shy and so adorable. Once I'd earned his trust, we played hide and seek as I chased him around the little apartment. He'd run and duck and giggle and talk to me in French. I couldn't understand his words, but we spoke the same language of laughter and fun. Afterward, we sat on the couch and he read me a story about a moon from a French picture book — La Lune.
At one point, I was kneeling on the ground to get to his eye level. The little boy tilted his head to the side and looked at me with those big, innocent eyes. He turned to his father and pulled at his hand before babbling something in French.
Benjamin burst out laughing.
"What" I asked.
Nemo stared at me in wonder.
"He just asked if you were the Queen."
I chuckled. How odd. For some reason, Nemo's question seared itself into my memory with an asterisk placed next to it: *refer back later. Maybe it was the way the boy looked at me. Or maybe it was the sharp bolt of energy entering the nape of my neck and running down my spine — a sensation that occurred when I received one of my eerie intuitive hits.
I looked up at Benjamin. "Just tell him I grew up in a little Australian town on Princess Street, so I was always destined to be a queen one day."
Nemo didn't understand what was happening. He just looked at me again, as if he saw right through me. "Es-tu la Reine?" he asked. Are you the Queen?
The Oracle: So, what do you think? Do you think you are The One?
Neo: Honestly, I don't know.
The Oracle: You know what that means? It's Latin. It means "Know Thyself."
I'm going to let you in on a little secret. Being The One is just like being in love. No one can tell you you're in love. You just know it. Through and through. Balls to bones.
I’d been working on this company ever since I finished high school, so 99dresses was all I’d ever known. It was a huge part of my identity — I was “that 99dresses girl.” Who was I without this startup? I had no idea. Just an ordinary girl, I guess.
"Are you ready to go?" Mum asked. She was standing beside me, looking anxious. It was 2001. I was 9 years old.
"Yeah, I'm ready."
"How are your teeth?"
"Fine!" I batted away her hand.
"Do they hurt?"
I gave her a big smile. "No. They're fine! Good as new."
I'd smashed my front teeth into fangs while playing Marco Polo in the pool the previous day. It was a stroke of pure luck that I could get them repaired before my first day at a new school.
"I know we've discussed this before," Mum said, "but the teachers think you need to skip a grade. You're going to be the youngest in your year. Let me know if you're having trouble fitting in, okay?"
I nodded.
"Okay. Let's go."
We walked up to the teacher. She introduced herself and two other girls in uniform. "This is Sarah. This is Gen. They're going to be your buddies. They'll show you around."
The two girls smiled sweetly at the teacher.
"I'll see you after school." Mum waved goodbye and walked away.
"Hi," I said to the girls once the adults were gone.
They both looked me up and down, then looked at each other. A second later, they turned on their heel and walked in the opposite direction, fading away into oblivion. And I was all alone.
What's wrong with me? my mind asked. Why don't they like me?
I turned around in circles. Happy kids were laughing and screaming and running around, playing handball with each other.
What's wrong with me? my mind asked again.
That's when the echo began.
***
"Oh my God, that was so funny!" Canna yelled as she turned Pedro around and trotted away. "Let's do it one more time."
She lined up Pedro opposite me and I lined up Frenchie opposite her. We grabbed our pool noodles under our arms and charged the horses at each other like jousting knights.
It was such a stupid game. But Canna and I loved concocting stupid games — we'd been doing so since preschool. There wasn't much to do in our small country town so we had to use our imaginations.
A few days prior, we'd had the exciting idea of filming an adaptation of Pride and Prejudice — with chickens. We thought it'd be hilarious; the epitome of irreverence and wit. We drew storyboards and laid out each scene in detail. We naively assumed the chickens would follow our cues and stay exactly on script. Everything was perfect in our heads.
And then reality hit. The film set was mayhem. Chickens were running around with handmade bonnets and top hats perched on their heads until they slid under their beaks. Feathers were flying everywhere. If we managed to get two chickens to stay still in a scene, they'd wander off before we could do the voice-over behind the camera. It was a disaster.
So we decided to pivot to Pride and Prejudice — with rabbits! Canna only had three rabbits so each rabbit had to play multiple roles. There was one particular scene where we dressed the female rabbit as Mr. Darcy and the male rabbit as Mr. Bingley. Halfway through the scene, Canna ran out from behind the old handheld camcorder yelling, "Mr. Bingley! Stop! Stop mounting Mr. Darcy!" We gave up after that.
"I think the boys are tired," I said. "Wanna head back?"
Canna swung Pedro around, this time heading for the road. Frenchie trotted forward to flank his friend.
We wandered up towards the mountain. The horses knew where they were going: home. They knew that home meant hay, and munching fresh grass, and hosing, and brushing, and frolicking, and rolling in the mud. We could feel their pent-up anticipation in the reins as they waited for our signal.
"Ready?" Canna asked.
"Ready," I said as I turned Frenchie onto the grass strip leading up the mountain.
We both looked at each other, leaned forward, and took the tension off the reins.
***
Let’s go back to how this process of self-knowing must work.
There is one way I could have caused all of My spiritual children to know themselves as parts of Me — and that was simply to tell them. This I did. But you see, it was not enough for Spirit to simply know Itself as God, or part of God, or children of God, or inheritors of the kingdom (or whatever mythology you want to use).
As I’ve already explained, knowing something, and experiencing it, are two different things. Spirit longed to know Itself experientially (just as I did!). Conceptual awareness was not enough for you.
So I devised a plan.
***
"We had a deal!" I screamed. I was 12 years old, standing in the dining room with my parents. Tears were pouring down my face.
"Nikki," Mum said, her complexion soft with empathy. "You can't give up an opportunity like this. It's a full-ride scholarship! You'll be attending one of the best schools in Australia. We live in a country town, Nik. There are no opportunities for you here."
"I am not going to boarding school!" I spluttered as the tears ran down my face. "We had a deal! I told you I didn't want to sit that scholarship test. I told you there was no point because I wasn't going to that school. I told you. And then you said 'No, no, Nikki. You don't have to go if you get the scholarship. Just keep your options open. Just sit the test. We'll buy you a CD if you sit the test. You don't have to actually go.' You said that to me!" I wiped my eyes on my hoodie. "And you lied to me. You lied. You lied!"
My parents looked at each other with that knowing look. That wise look. You know the one. It's the look you give when you know you're doing what's best for your child in the long run, but they can't quite see it yet.
"I don't want to leave Frenchie," I cried as snot ran down my nose.
"You can go riding in Sydney! They have a great riding school there."
"I don't want to go to a fancy riding school! And I don't want to ride another horse!" I felt like they were ripping away my best friend. "And I don't want to leave Canna."
"You can visit Canna in the holidays! She'll be at the local high school."
My eyes were gushing like waterfalls during heavy rain. "I don't want to go. Don't make me go. Please don't make me go."
***
Under the plan, you as pure spirit would enter the physical universe just created. Once in the physical universe, you, My spirit children, could experience what you know of yourself — but first, you had to come to know the opposite. You cannot create yourself until you uncreate yourself. In a sense, you have to first “not be” in order to be.
Of course, there is no way for you to not be who and what you are — you simply are that (pure, creative spirit), have been always, and always will be. So, you did the next best thing. You caused yourself to forget Who You Really Are.
***
"What's wrong with me?!" I begged my mother for an answer. I was 14 years old, balling my eyes out on the phone as I hid in the closet of my boarding school dormitory. "Why don't they like me? I'm a nice person, aren't I?"
"Of course you are."
"Then why don't they like me? What's wrong with me? She invited all the other boarders to her party except me. I don't understand. What's wrong with me?"
"There's nothing wrong with you, Nikki. You're just... different. You always have been." I couldn't hear the pain in my mother's voice under the sound of my frantic sobs.
"I don't want to be different! I don't know why she hates me. I'm not a bad person. I'm a nice person. I spent an hour helping Melissa with her homework last night, and then this morning I overheard her bitching about me in the bathrooms. She called me a freak, Mum. And I thought she was one of the nice ones."
"They're just insecure. It's got nothing to do with you and everything to do with them."
"Yeah, right. Why would you be that mean to someone when they're only ever kind to you? It doesn't make any sense."
"Because people don't make sense, Nikki. It's not you. You're just a bit... unconventional."
"You mean, a nerd?"
"More like a... creative. You march to the beat of your own drum. You always have."
"I just want to fit in, Mum. I just want to have some friends."
***
I stood outside the walk-in closet that everyone in my dormitory shared. I could hear the girls giggling inside, swapping clothes with each other. I never swapped clothes with them. I just watched them do it.
As I peeked inside, I found three girls holding up my favorite polka dot skirt. I loved that skirt. My grandma was a seamstress. She'd sewn it for me in blue and white fabric with cute little bows on each side. I liked blue. My eyes are blue. I thought it looked nice.
But there they were, holding it up and rolling on the floor, laughing. "It's so ugly!" they cried. "Just like her."
They stopped when they saw me in the doorway.
***
Two years and an eating disorder later, I found myself staring at an apple on the table.
Should I eat it? I asked myself. I am hungry.
No, my ego snapped. You'll get fat. And nobody will ever love you if you're fat.
***
I peered over the balcony. My favorite gorilla stuffed toy — the one I'd had since I was born — was lying on the ground, two stories below. I'd walked into the shared dormitory to find Lucy throwing my prized possession out the window.
Why me? I asked as I ran downstairs to retrieve Rilla from the lawn. What's wrong with me?
As I knelt down on the grass, the soft voice of a Sufi poet whispered in my ear. Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I'll meet you there.
***
I sat at the table next to my brother, Hamish. It'd been raining for most of the week in our little town. We were bored and in need of a holiday project. I was 14 years old. Hamish was two years younger.
"So, Nikki." Hamish leaned forward as if he were about to let me in on a conspiracy. "You know the internet?"
"Yeah..."
"You know we could, like, buy stuff and then sell it on the internet for more than we bought it for and make a little something called 'profit'?" He tapped his fingertips together like a tycoon, then pulled out a book he'd found at the library. Hamish had read all the stock trading books on the shelf, but this one was about selling stuff on eBay.
When my parents sent us to boarding school, we were normally handed a crisp fifty-dollar note on our first day of term. We were expected to make the money last for the entire ten weeks. Fifty dollars was generally enough to buy some snacks, toiletries, and stationery throughout the term, but nothing extravagant. "If you want more, go figure it out yourself," they'd said.
So we did. Hamish and I started a little eBay business. You technically had to be over eighteen to be on the platform, but we lied about our age. We initially imported electronics from China, but quickly realized electronics were a commodity on eBay. The competition was fierce and profit margins were thin.
After about a year of testing various products with mediocre success, I eventually found a little t-shirt supplier in Hong Kong who could dropship shirts for us. I'd design the shirts in Photoshop, then we'd sell them on our eBay store. Once a sale came in, we'd pay the supplier to print the shirt and ship it to the customer. I was a top seller by the age of sixteen. eBay frequently invited us to their powerseller conferences and various other events that we could never attend, lest they discover our true age.
The business was good for me. It was a creative project to focus on when the bullying got bad at school; a portal into a world where I wasn't an outsider. I could sell something I'd created and people would thank me for it. In a small way, I felt like I added value to someone else's life.
After the first few years, I was making decent money for a schoolgirl. I had no living expenses so I didn't know what to do with the money. I saved most of it. I invested some of it in new projects that never got off the ground. Sometimes I'd go shopping on the weekend and drop a thousand dollars on clothes without blinking.
And that's how I found myself staring at my bulging closet as a 16-year-old. Wouldn't it be nice if I could swap all these clothes with other girls? I thought. You know, like everyone else in the boarding house does.
Inspiration struck me like a bolt of lightning. The idea for 99dresses took form.
***
Tears were streaming down my face like the water streaming down the window of my boarding school bedroom.
I was 17 years old. It was Halloween. I was all alone.
I looked in the direction of my closet. An overflow of sequinned material betrayed the presence of my costume, which I was not wearing.
It was Rachel's birthday that weekend — one of the girls I sat with every day at school as part of the group. She was having a big Halloween party. Everyone was invited — even people she barely spoke to.
I'd bought a costume and a birthday present. Something silly, y'know? I was making good money at the time through my online business. I wanted to make her laugh with a unique and thoughtful gift.
But the day before the party, I'd overheard Rachel talking to another girl: "What do you mean you're coming to the party with Nikki? She's not invited."
I turned around before she saw me, walked straight into the bathrooms, and burst into tears. I felt so ashamed. Embarrassed. What kind of loser assumes she has friends, buys a costume and a present, then finds out the joke's on her?
As I stared out the window on that Saturday night, the echo returned — the phrase that had ricocheted around my head for eternity: What's wrong with me?
I thought about all the fun everyone else was having without me. I wondered what it would be like to feel accepted. To belong somewhere. To not feel like such an outsider all the time.
I hope it's wet and miserable for her, my ego yelled. I hope her party sucks.
No, you don't, Wisdom whispered. Let it be.
I walked up to Rachel in the school hallway on Monday. "How was the party?" I asked, sincerely.
She looked awkward; guilty. "Good, thanks."
"I'm glad you had a nice time. I just wanted to give you this." I handed her the wrapped present I'd purchased a few weeks earlier. "I hope you like it. Happy birthday."
***
"I don't understand why Claire hates me," I whined to Jane. I was sitting on a pile of red cushions in the study room. "She's so mean to me. I never did anything to her. Why does she hate me?"
"Honestly," Jane shrugged, "you're like a blinding light. You're too bright."
"What do you mean?"
"Think about it. You're freakishly smart, and you don't need to study anywhere near as hard as us mere mortals do. I've seen you memorize huge essays, word for word, in a few hours so you can recite them in an exam. It's so unfair. I struggle to even write a good essay, let alone memorize it like that. And all of this might be okay if you were just good at English or math or one particular subject, but you do all of them well. And you're a freak at art! It looks like you don't even try-"
"Hey!" I snapped. "I worked hard to develop those skills. It's not like I tumbled out of the womb with a paintbrush in my hand."
"Do you remember a few years ago when a professional art dealer saw your sculpture at the school art exhibition and tried to buy it? We were, like, thirteen! You're just naturally talented. Not just at art — at everything."
"I'm not particularly good at sport," I said.
"You're not particularly bad either," she rebutted.
"What about music. I don't do music."
"Exactly! It's infuriating. You got full marks on your last music exam, then you dropped the damn subject. If I could get even close to 100%, I'd be holding on for dear life."
"So she hates me because I'm good at ticking arbitrary boxes?"
"Come on, Nikki. It's not just that. Claire's earning minimum wage at a shitty retail job, and you're making all this money with your online business-"
"I work on that business while she's off partying! We all have the same number of hours in the day-"
"Not when Claire or Rachel or the rest of us have to study five times as hard as you just to get a mediocre mark," Jane replied. "All of this might be fine if you were hideous-looking, but you're not. And it's not like your personality is shit. Oh! And to top it all off, her ex-boyfriend is in love with you-"
"I don't like him like that."
"But he wishes you did. Everyone knows."
"How is that my fault?"
"It's not. But can you see why she makes your life a living hell? Social power is the only thing she has over you. You're too bright. It makes everyone else uncomfortable."
This Book is being written, and as it’s being written it’s already written; it already exists. In fact, that’s where you’re getting all this information — from the book that already exists. You’re merely bringing it into form.