Eat Pray Love

Elizabeth Gilbert was thirty-four years old, lying on her bathroom floor in the middle of the night. She had everything a person could want—a husband, a home in the suburbs, a successful career as a writer. But she was sobbing uncontrollably, consumed by a despair so deep she couldn't see a way out.

Her marriage was suffocating her. She had spent eight years trying to want what she was supposed to want: a baby, a house, a settled life. But at thirty, instead of feeling ready to "settle down," she felt like she was facing a death sentence. The harder she tried to be grateful for her life, the more trapped she became. Her husband was both her lighthouse and her albatross—she couldn't imagine leaving him, and she couldn't imagine staying.

Then came the affair with David, a younger man she met when he performed in a play based on her short stories. That relationship consumed her completely, and when it collapsed, it left her worse than before. She lost thirty pounds. She couldn't sleep. She thought about suicide. Her life, she later wrote, had become "a multi-vehicle accident on the New Jersey Turnpike during holiday traffic."

And so here she was, on the cold bathroom floor, at her absolute lowest point. She had tried everything—therapy, medication, self-help books, exercise, avoiding sad movies. Nothing worked. In her desperation, she did something she had never done before. She spoke directly to God.

She was awkward about it. She knew the word "God" might offend some people, but she didn't know what else to call Him. She wasn't a theological Christian, and she didn't believe Christ was the only path to the divine. But she believed in something magnificent, and in that moment, she needed help from whatever that something was.

"Please tell me what to do," she whispered.

Then something remarkable happened. Her sobbing stopped. And she heard a voice—not a booming voice from the heavens, but her own voice, speaking clearly and calmly. It said three words:

"Go back to bed, Liz."

That was it. No dramatic revelation. No divine command. Just permission to stop fighting, to rest, to survive the night. But for Elizabeth Gilbert, it was the beginning of what she calls a "religious conversation"—not a conversion experience, but the start of an ongoing dialogue that would transform her life.

The voice on the bathroom floor was the first sign that something inside her was still intact, still capable of guiding her toward healing. She didn't know where that voice came from—whether it was God, her higher self, or simply her own survival instinct kicking in. But she decided to listen.

In the months that followed, three things happened that would shape the next year of her life. First, she signed up for an Italian language class, purely for the pleasure of it. Second, a friend introduced her to a spiritual teacher, a guru whose Tuesday night chanting sessions in New York filled her with something she had never felt before. And third, she traveled to Bali on a magazine assignment and met a ninth-generation medicine man named Ketut Liyer, who drew her a strange picture: a figure with four legs, no head, and a smiling face where the heart should be. The figure was praying, and Ketut explained that it represented balance—grounded feet to stay in the world, but a heart open to God.

Ketut told her something else, too. He said she would lose all her money, and then she would get it back. He said she would return to Bali one day and live with him, and he would teach her everything he knew.

When she got back to New York, Elizabeth Gilbert began to piece together a plan. She was still tangled in a bitter divorce. She was still heartbroken over David. She was still waking up some mornings wondering if life was worth living. But she had an idea—a radical, impractical, possibly crazy idea.

She would spend one year traveling to three countries, each one beginning with the letter "I." Italy, for pleasure—to learn the language, eat the food, and rediscover the joy of simply being alive. India, for devotion—to live at her guru's ashram and learn to quiet her mind. And Indonesia, for balance—to study with Ketut Liyer and figure out how to integrate pleasure and spirituality into a single, sustainable life.

Her friends mocked her. They called it a "year-long vacation" and told her she was running away. But Elizabeth knew the truth. She wasn't running toward a vacation; she was running toward her own survival. The woman on the bathroom floor had heard a voice telling her to go back to bed. Now she was getting up, walking out the door, and crossing the world to find out what that voice really meant.

The year would be divided into 108 chapters—the number of beads on a Hindu prayer mala, each bead representing a step on the path toward something she couldn't yet name. She would visit Italy first, then India, then Bali. She would take a vow of celibacy to break her lifelong pattern of losing herself in relationships. She would spend four months eating pasta and learning Italian, four months scrubbing temple floors and wrestling with her own mind, and four months sitting beside a toothless old medicine man who would teach her to smile even in her liver.

It was a quest for balance—between pleasure and devotion, between the world and the spirit, between the woman who had fallen apart and the woman she hoped to become. But before any of that could happen, she had to survive the night on the bathroom floor. She had to hear the voice. She had to say yes to the conversation that was just beginning.

What makes a woman so desperate that she prays to a God she's not sure she believes in? And what makes her get up off that floor and trust the voice that tells her to go back to bed?