Hellos and Goodbyes: Woniya Thibeault and Mike Birbiglia

moth is supported by AstraZeneca.

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Many of us have stories about family legacies passed down through generations.

When I was five, my mother sewed me a classic clown costume, red and yellow with a pointy hat.

It's since been worn by my sister, three cousins, and four of our children.

I'm so happy this piece of my childhood lives on with no end in sight.

Genetic conditions like HATTR shouldn't dominate our stories.

Thanks to the efforts of AstraZeneca, there are treatment options so more patients can choose the legacies they share.

This year, the Moth will partner with AstraZeneca to shine a light on the stories of those living with HATTR.

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Welcome to the Moth Podcast.

I'm Catherine Burns, your host for this episode, and for over 20 years, the Moth's Artistic Director.

I stepped down last month, but I can still remember the spring night in 2000 when I attended my first moth show.

I was swept away by the mesmerizing stories and the energy of the warm crowd.

I floated home.

I became, in turn, a Grand Slam contestant and a volunteer in what was then called the Moth Community Program.

Soon after, in one of the greatest blessings of my professional life, I got the chance to work at this groundbreaking organization, which at the time had just two full-time employees.

Thank goodness for our many volunteers.

The job has taken me to places I never thought possible when I started that first day.

Directing a show on the main stage of the Sydney Opera House, rehearsing a story at dawn in a trailer at the Bronx Zoo, sitting after hours in the Tower of London as the Ravenmaster put his beloved birds to bed, then ran his story for us in the moonlight.

This job has been one of the great loves of my life, and I've been blessed to be a part of growing an organization that means so much to so many.

I know I'm leaving the moth in the hands of many brilliant people as I pursue a number of personal dream projects.

So, on this episode, as a way to say goodbye, we'll be hearing the first story I ever directed, and also the last.

Let's start at the end with a story that was told by Wonia Thibault just a few weeks ago.

She shared this at our live show at the Greenwood Cemetery in Brooklyn, where the theme of the night was buried.

If you hear some airplane noises or crickets, well, that's because we were outside among the tombs and the stars.

Here's Wonia live at the moth.

By the way, my nostrils freeze together for an instant on every inhale, I'm guessing it's gotten down to about 20 below zero.

I'm sitting on a rock looking out over a vast expanse of frozen water.

And as I stare at the high cliff wall across the South Bay, the helicopter crests the rise and I can hear the noise of the rotors reverberating off all of that ice in front of me.

and it strikes terror into my heart.

Now I have been living on this remote peninsula just south of of the Arctic Circle for over two months.

And I've had very little food.

There are all kinds of wild animals all around and bitter cold temperatures.

But the reality is that the only thing that really scares me out here

is that helicopter and what it might be coming to do.

I've devoted my adult life to learning, practicing, and teaching ancestral skills, the same skills that our ancestors used to live and thrive in in the wild.

Things like gathering and eating wild foods, skinning deer, tanning their hides and making clothing of them, harvesting willow and weaving baskets and the like.

And while I've spent a lot of time in the wilderness and sometimes with very limited gear, I've never done anything like this.

And I would never have predicted that one day those skills would bring me here living on my own long term in the Arctic wilderness.

I was a wimpy bookworm of a kid, the classic kid always picked last for any team in high school PE, right?

I was anti-hunting and vegan as a teenager, and yet I have been living on my own in one of the most extreme and rugged wildernesses in the world, surviving off of my hunting and trapping and loving every second of it.

Now, that said, I would never have chosen to come out here to live long term if it hadn't been for a television show.

The Alone Show is a self-filmed wilderness survival challenge where they pick 10 people

and each of those 10 people are allowed to choose 10 items and their clothing.

And then they are dropped by helicopter or boat into different areas of remote wilderness with a case full of cameras to live for as long as they can and to document the whole journey themselves.

So it's designed to be an incredibly rugged challenge.

And it's a competition.

The last one out wins and gets a lot of money.

Now, when the show approached me and invited me to be a part of season six, at first I wanted nothing to do with it.

The idea of the challenge and going going to this amazing wilderness was absolutely appealing, but frankly, I hated TV.

I felt like TV was everything that I disliked about our culture and then magnified and commercialized.

And the idea of it being a competition and about money felt kind of gross to me.

At the same time, I realized that it was important for someone like me to take on this challenge in a visible way like on this television show, because the images that we normally see of wilderness survival are someone built like Rambo, you know, bulging biceps, usually a male, usually with some kind of military training, and more often than not, with a knife the size of their forearm strapped to their thigh.

You do not see young and petite women, I am five foot four, I am small framed, going out into the wilderness with the idea of going to somewhere that they knew they belonged and coming from a place of connection and respect and reciprocity rather than going out to wrestle the wilderness into submission.

So while parts of me were a little reluctant, there were parts of me that knew it was right.

And so here I am.

on this barren, rocky peninsula, watching the helicopter settle onto the rocks.

So I do what I do during these medical checks and I'm pretty nervous about it because the last couple medical checks I just barely squeaked by.

I strip down to my long underwear in the bitter cold and I step onto the scale and I'm poked and prodded and my vitals are checked and I'm sitting nervously watching the camera crew.

and the producers and the medical team confer.

And the cameraman who accompanies these medical journeys, the only time where we are not self-filming everything is during these medical checks.

He points the camera at me and he says, Wonia, why don't you talk to the camera about how hard this is, about how it's the hardest thing you've ever done?

And I look at him and I think, The hardest thing I've ever done?

Now, it's incredibly challenging.

It is physically grueling.

There's so much deprivation, near starvation, bitter cold temperatures, everything I've got just to live here every day.

And yet it's also so magical and beautiful.

Now, I've been through some hard times in my life, emotionally devastating times.

My parents splitting when I was a young girl, my mom getting cancer not long after, two very painful divorces, and countless other griefs.

And when I was experiencing those, I didn't have northern lights dancing overhead just for me or the ice sparkling in the water just before the lake freezes over.

A million beautiful things that I would never have seen in any other circumstances.

So while this is hard, there is no way that is the hardest thing I've ever done.

I look at him and I say, no, no, it isn't.

And in fact, those hard things I've been through are part of what makes me strong out here.

And amazingly, I make it past the medical check, but the producer looks at me and tells me in his sternest voice that it was by a very narrow margin and I absolutely have got to start bringing in more food, which I already know.

And so I am relieved, and yet that question leaves me unsettled, and all of those griefs are stirred.

And yet there's one grief that hasn't healed that isn't something that I've just moved past.

And that is the knowledge that I've never had the opportunity to become a mother.

I was never one of those people that questioned whether or not I wanted children.

I always knew I did.

It was always one of my most important life's goals.

And yet when I got pregnant at 22 in an unstable phase of the relationship with the man I would later marry, We both knew that it really wasn't a good time for us and we decided not to keep the baby.

And I figured, you know, I am young, I've got so much time, I've got the rest of my life, it's not an issue.

And yet the years dwindled quickly and by my mid-30s, I found myself increasingly desperate to have a child.

That tick-ticking of that proverbial clock so strong in my ears that it drove my decision making and I made some really poor choices.

Anything I would say yes to if it meant there was potential for a a child in there.

And those poor choices just pushed motherhood further away.

Until at age 39, I was living in a broken down school bus on a steep slope on a mountainside with a partner with whom my relationship was becoming increasingly volatile.

And I was just preparing to tell him that I was pretty sure I was pregnant.

as he was preparing to tell me that he had changed his mind about wanting children.

And as you can imagine, it didn't go well.

And just a few months before my 40th birthday, I miscarried.

Now,

I understood that it wasn't a good situation to be in, so there was a sense of rightness in the miscarriage, and yet the knowledge that it may very well have been my last chance was

so debilitating.

And the next couple of years had me absolutely crippled with grief and angst and longing and mourning the fact that while I am someone who has devoted my life to ancestral skills, I will never be anyone's ancestor.

And yet,

when I think about that in my beautiful Arctic home right now, I find that I can think about it without that stabbing pain that's always been present with those thoughts before.

And I asked myself, what's going on?

When did that shift?

And that's when I remember the dough.

The Alone team had reached out to me late in their casting process.

And while they were inviting me to participate, potentially, I still needed to go through all of the normal hoops in order to be selected.

And that meant submitting footage of myself doing a variety of survival-related tasks.

And because it was so late in their timeline, they needed that footage within a week.

Now I had a busy life.

I had a bunch of things going on.

I was about to tell them, no way, call me another time.

And then not long after, a friend of mine called me and said, Wonia, you've got to help me.

A deer was hit crossing the road in front of my house and she wandered into my yard to die.

I have no idea what to do with her.

This is your thing.

Will you please come and get her?

And I was already in my housemate's truck on the way to pick her up when I realized, oh my God,

this is the footage that I need for my casting footage.

So I filmed myself cutting her up and packing her meat into the freezer, skinning her and tanning her hide and making tools out of the bones and the sinew in her forelegs.

That doe

had allowed me to apply to Alone.

She's the reason why I'm here.

But that wasn't the most magical gift that she brought me.

I was elbows deep inside her body cavity, gutting her, when I felt something hard in there.

What in the world could a deer have been eating that would be hard, I asked.

And then it hit me just as her uterus slid out.

into my arms.

She had been pregnant when she was hit on the road that day with two

beautiful fawns that looked so close to birth that it was as if I could feel them breathing.

My housemate was also an ancestral skills practitioner, and he looked over my shoulder and he said, oh my god, those are going to make amazing pelts.

I almost elbowed him in the ribs.

No way, these were so sacred and beautiful.

They needed ceremony, not skinning.

So I laid them into a salad bowl and I I finished cutting up the meat and packing it all away.

And hours later, when my housemates were long since asleep, I went back to that salad bowl and I carried into the kitchen and I washed each of them in the sink, got all of the amniotic fluid off until their little white spots just shone bright.

And then I carried them into the living room and pulled a rocking chair up to the wood stove and just sat with them in my arms.

And I pet their beautiful, soft fur and looked at how they had exquisitely formed little eyelashes.

Every part of them was perfect and ready for the world except for their hooves which were still soft in my fingers and translucent.

So I rocked them and I sang to them and I kissed their wee little black noses and I cried over them.

And then I laid them in a basket and covered them in wildflowers.

And as the sun rose, I buried them under a wild rose bush in my yard.

And thinking about it now, I realize that that was the moment that my grief shifted something about holding those two babies in my arms, feeling their weight, and getting to give that ceremony and shower with love these two babies that had never had the opportunity to take their first breath.

Just like the two babies that I had carried in my my body had never had the opportunity to be born.

And that in giving them the proper send-off and really mourning them properly, the weight of that terrible grief had been lifted from me.

And now that I think of it, had I had that family that I had always dreamed of, I wouldn't be here now living the life of my dreams, going off into the wilderness wilderness to live off of it using only meager resources and the skill of my own two hands, that was the fulfillment of all of my life's purpose.

And it has been incredible to learn how to trap animals taught by those animals themselves and to turn their beautiful pelts into clothing to keep me warm in the Arctic cold.

to build the muscles and bones of my body from the plants and animals of this place.

It was a dream come true.

And if I had been given the opportunity to trade this experience for the family I had always wanted, I honestly don't know that I would make that trade.

And that's amazing to think about.

But I was getting skinnier and skinnier.

I was clearly digesting my muscles

and my organs were likely to be next.

Just let me stay a little bit longer, I would pray.

And then all of a sudden, it hit me like a lightning bolt in my head and dropped me to my knees because I realized

I can't do that.

One day there are going to be people all around the world watching it, and I would be demonstrating to them that it's okay to sacrifice your long-term health for the idea of winning and money and competition.

And that is exactly counter to everything that I believe in and stand for.

A lot of those young people watching

would be children.

The one moment that more eyes were on me than any other time in my life, was I going to be an example of everything that's the antithesis of what I feel to be right?

No way.

There was no way I could do that.

And maybe I wouldn't ever have the opportunity to mother children of my own, but I could mother those young young people right now by setting a good example for them.

And so,

before the next medical check, I used my GPS device and I dialed up the production team for the alone show.

And I said, Don't bother packing up the scale and bringing the doctors.

You're not doing a medical check for me today.

You're picking me up and you're taking me home.

I knew that making the right choice and leaving with my sovereignty intact instead of being dragged out of there by a team of doctors or being carried out in a stretcher,

being that example in that moment, choosing myself,

that was the real victory.

Thank you.

That was Wonia Thibault.

Wonia is a naturalist, craftsperson, and ancestral skills instructor whose passion is inspiring and empowering people to live their wildest, freest, most abundant lives.

Through her writing, teaching, speaking, and videos, she offers skills and practices which help people feel connected to and part of the natural world.

Her debut memoir, called Never Alone, was released in June, and I highly recommend it.

I couldn't put it down.

In the book, she writes: It's time to let go of the story of needing children to feel complete and whole.

Maybe the key to future happiness isn't using reproductive science to give me a baby.

Maybe it's birthing myself and the life I was meant to live.

After Wonia left her Arctic camp, she learned that she was the runner-up on season six of Alone, the guy who won had managed to shoot a moose.

And then, in 2021, she was invited back for an all-star season.

I don't want to give a spoiler, so you'll have to watch it to find out what happened.

If you'd like to see photos of Wonia in the wild, check out our website, themoth.org slash extras.

Up next is the very first story I ever directed.

Back in 2003, we were producing two storytelling shows at the U.S.

Comedy Arts Festival in Aspen, Colorado.

Directing 10 stories over a few days is a lot of work, so our then artistic and executive director asked me if I might take on one of the storytellers.

He was a 24-year-old comedian who was just starting out, and his name was Mike Berbiglia.

It turns out he'd never told a standalone story on stage before and I certainly wasn't going to worry him by telling him this was also my first story.

Years later, this story blossomed into his one-man show, My Girlfriend's Boyfriend, which you can watch on Netflix.

But this is where it all began.

Here's Mike Berbiglia, Learning But the Man.

When I was a senior in high school, I had my first girlfriend, and I went to boarding school.

This is the girl that I fell in love with for the first time.

And it was really like,

you know, that first time where you were like,

there's someone, it's it, you know, this is the person.

I found her, you know.

And

she was great, you know, she was just like, you know, so beautiful.

And she played tennis.

She wrote for the newspaper.

And she was kind of a bad girl.

And I was kind of like a...

like a dorky, nerdy kid.

And so I was like, yeah, this is my bad girl phase.

so I was really excited and

she she had just transferred into the school and and

there were I find that when you fall in love you overlook certain red flags

about people

one of them was that she was a liar

And I don't mean that like in an offensive way.

In boarding school, lying is kind of a way of life, you know?

And there was this one guy in my class.

He was like a legendary liar.

His name was Jeff Ziggler.

And he would lie about things that weren't important at all.

There was no, you know, so what were you going to say?

You know, he said one time, he said, my uncle, Zig Ziglar, the motivational speaker,

I don't know who that is.

You know, but he lied about everything.

The other thing is she used to say really mean stuff to me, and then she'd say, only kidding,

as though that was okay.

She'd be like, you're not good at anything.

Only kidding.

Another thing was

she would go home on the weekends and we'd talk on the phone and she'd ask me to call her right back every time.

Or she'd say she'd call me right back every time.

One time I asked why and she said that

Her father worked at AT ⁇ T and one time she was at his office and stole a list of people's phone cards cards.

And then she would use each one until like they would be suspicious and then she'd throw it away.

So, well,

what are you going to do?

She doesn't like paying for phone calls.

The final,

oh, and the other thing is, she had kind of a

questionable past.

She was expelled from her previous school for dealing acid.

And

the one final red flag was that she told me not to tell anyone that she was my girlfriend

because she had a boyfriend

at home that she was breaking up with.

And it was over, but

if it got back to him, you know, it'd be bad.

And she would go home every weekend and she would visit him and would

said that at one point that his parents were sick.

So she had to console him in that.

And I thought, well, you know,

the guy's parents are dying.

So

it's all right.

So I saw her during the week and that was great.

So it didn't matter.

I was like, all right.

We'd been going out about two months and

We went to Christmas break and she invited me over Christmas break to visit her house in Rhode Island.

And I thought that this was my great moment.

You know, it was good, you know, it was going to vindicate me.

It was going to be my

moment where I was, you know, it's legit.

So I go, I drive my mom's Volvo station wagon from Cape Cod to Rhode Island, and I'm thrilled.

I remember the song Glycerine by Bush was on the radio.

It was very popular at the time.

It was like my love anthem.

I was like, was like, this is my song.

They know.

And

I got there and there she was and

her parents were there too.

And this other guy was there.

And his name was Paul.

And we were all hanging out.

And slowly it dawns on me that I'm hanging out with my girlfriend's boyfriend.

And there was some consolation because every time she would,

every time he would sort of like go to the bathroom and go in the other room, she'd be very affectionate to me.

And every time that,

but then there was a moment where I was in the bathroom and I thought,

what's happening in the other room, you know?

So

this story took a strange turn when they suggested that we go hang out at his house.

So we go, and

I met his parents.

And it's a very nerve-wracking thing meeting your girlfriend's, boyfriend's parents for the first time.

You don't want to make a bad impression.

So

we all hung out, and as a side note, they seemed in perfect health.

And

so the weekend ended and I drove home defeated, you know.

I sort of knew that

this was her life and I was like her secret life, like on Oprah.

When they have a secret family, you know.

And

it was tough.

And, you know, I had to listen to that glycerine song with new connotations

on the way home.

And so anyway, I was like, you know, this is it.

I got to stick up for myself.

It's either him or me.

I really, I realized that.

And

so when we got back to school, I called her and I said, you know, we need to talk, so let's meet at the hockey game.

My school had a hockey rink, as a side note.

So

she says, okay, I go to the hockey game.

Hockey game's going on.

She's not there yet.

Hockey game ends.

Still no sign.

And I have that pit in my stomach, you know, like what, this is going to be my moment, you You know, I was gonna, I was gonna

tell her that she had to pick me, or that's it.

And I start walking around the school, to the library, to the places she might be, and I ask people where she is.

And someone says, I saw her with Jeff Ziggler.

And I remembered that earlier that day, Jeff had said to me,

I'm sleeping with your girlfriend.

You know that, right?

And I thought, since he's a liar,

I go, yeah, I know.

And

it dawned on me that Jeff was her new second boyfriend.

And that I was out of the picture.

And it was that horrible, lonely feeling where you're walking around someplace, there's people all around, and there's only one person that you want to be with.

At that moment, no matter how mean of things that she would say, I wanted to hear that only kitten.

And

in the aftermath of the, you know, so I was brokenhearted and I sort of mended as the year went on.

I graduated.

In the aftermath, Jeff was expelled for

making fake IDs in his room.

He had a life-size license from Arkansas that people put their face in.

And Megan was expelled the next year for dealing Riddling.

And at boarding school, you have to, you can't can't go to the graduation.

If you're expelled, it's very important that you don't go.

It's real strict.

And really, and Megan showed up, I found out, in a disguise,

in a wig and sunglasses.

I just thought that was so interesting, you know, the idea that you could want to be in a place so bad that you have to be in disguise.

And then I thought, for the three months that we were together, I was in the wig and sunglasses.

Thank you.

That was Mike Rebiglia.

Mike is a comedian, storyteller, director, and actor who has performed in front of audiences worldwide, from the Sydney Opera House to Broadway.

His shows, My Girlfriend's Boyfriend and Thank God for Jokes, were both filmed for Netflix.

His most recent shows, The New One and The Old Man in the Pool, spit months on Broadway.

And The Old Man in the Pool will be playing at the Edinburgh Festival in August and the West End of London starting in September.

That's it for this episode.

I think back with love and gratitude for the over 500 storytellers who have trusted me to midwife their stories over the years.

I'm also thankful for the hundreds of staff, volunteers, and board members who've shared their talent with us.

And of course, you, our cherished listeners, who tune in every week to hear stories told live and over the air.

I started out as a Moth fan, and I go out as one too.

So if you need me, know I'll be out there once again with you, our beloved audience, listening.

Catherine Burns is a Peabody Award-winning director, storytelling doula, consultant, and public speaker.

She was the artistic director of The Moth from 2003 to 2023, where she was a host and producer of The Moth Radio Hour.

She is the co-author of the New York Times bestseller, How to Tell a Story, and the editor of The Moth's best-selling and critically acclaimed books, The Moth, 50 True Stories, All These Wonders, and Occasional Magic.

All the stories in this episode were directed by Catherine Burns.

This episode of The Moth Podcast was produced by Sarah Austin Janess, Sarah Jane Johnson, and me, Mark Solinger.

The rest of the Moss' leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Marina Cluché, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Leanne Gulley, and Aldi Caza.

All Moss stories are true, as remembered by the storytellers.

For more about our podcast, information on pitching your own story, and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.

The Moth Podcast is presented by PRX, the Public Radio Exchange, helping make public radio more public at PRX.org.

Mike and Alyssa are always trying to outdo each other.

When Alyssa got a small water bottle, Mike showed up with a four-liter jug.

When Mike started gardening, Alyssa started beekeeping.

Oh, come on.

They called a truce for their holiday and used Expedia Trip Planner to collaborate on all the details of their trip.

Once there, Mike still did more laps around the pool.

Whatever.

You were made to outdo your holidays.

We were made to help organize the competition.

Expedia, made to travel.