everything is temporary, anyway.
There was the very real possibility that driving the thousand miles from Denver to Los Angeles in one day by myself would be entirely too difficult.
And truly, it was a trip. After winding through the mountains west of Denver, 6AM and full of energy, I sped across Utah, past remote towns and landscapes that looked otherworldly. Once I finally made it through Arizona and Nevada, I found myself stopped at a railroad crossing in the middle of the desert, blocked by a stationary train that’d been holding up traffic for over an hour. The setting sun made the monochrome landscape glow and as I waited for nearly an hour and chatted with friendly drivers, I started getting really excited.
I’ve come to learn that this is a really good clue that I’m where I’m supposed to be, feeling most alive — setbacks feel more like moments of beauty than frustration.
By the time I got back on the road again, I was going on hour fourteen. It was getting dark and my body began to ache and I felt mind-numbingly bored. Finally, after sixteen hours, I arrived in Joshua Tree where I was meeting Carmella at an Airbnb, an accidental tri-annual tradition for us. (See also 2014 and 2017.)
I was moving to California.
Denver had been nine months of challenging transition, another transient stop in my post-travel life that didn’t materialize into anything long-term. I’ve been back in the U.S. for nearly two years now, and adjusting to U.S. life has been difficult to say the least.
Going solo: It feels far more terrifying to try to make a life here in the U.S. than it is to, say, climb a mountain in Tasmania or backpack through Cambodia. The in-between parts feel okay, like the marathon road trip through the desert and solo Airbnb stays. Those parts are actually a lot like backpacking, and I feel comfortable there: noncommittal, open, impermanent. It’s the settling in one place that makes my stomach twist.
And there are so many reasons why this particular move has felt surreal and bizarre.
There was first the peril of living with one’s family as an adult. I’ve lived with Rachel in Denver since October and while we love each other dearly, adult sisters living together - and through a pandemic no less - is not the easiest thing. By July it was time for me to go. I knew I didn’t want to stay in Colorado.
Meanwhile, I’d been falling deeper and deeper into a new relationship (quarantine romances are real, folks) and as fellow “geographically independent” people, we’d been including each other in our respective plans for the month of July. Except it all fell apart at the last minute, devastatingly, and I scrambled to find a new plan, for just myself.
New medical fears and complications meant that while I scrambled to find a place to live for July while processing a fresh breakup, I was also deeply in pain, navigating healthcare choices, and trying to understand what this meant for my health long-term.
Ending jobs, especially ones that involve caring for sweet little babies every single day, always comes with a bit of grief, and saying goodbye to my dear Denver family who I’d navigated the worst of the pandemic with felt especially sad.
Moving in the midst of a pandemic is strange in and of itself, and this meant I hadn’t seen some of my Denver friends in months. I practically left without a goodbye. I arrived in a different California than any of us ever anticipated, and will somehow adjust in a world where making new friends feels harder than ever.
I feel certain that processing my departure from Denver and starting yet another new chapter will take awhile to process. (If you haven’t caught on yet, I am the most sensitive of all the sensitives.) There’s grief and excitement and guilt and apprehension all rolled up into one big sensation, and feeling that sensation’s constant presence is nothing short of exhausting.
But there’s magic, too.
There’s the magic of moving to a beautiful city by the coast where one of my dearest friends lives, a move we’ve been optimistically plotting for years.
There was the magic of the open road through the desert, unending solo hours with podcasts and music and long phone calls, and though I was cautioned against it, I loved it.
There’s the magic of Joshua Tree at sunset, a special kind of magic.
There’s the magic of countless supportive friends who check in and genuinely care and cheerlead along the way.
There’s the magic of the most beautiful and affordable Airbnb in the mountains outside Los Angeles, where hummingbirds land in the trees and bushy jade plants surround the patio and the quiet mixes with birdsong.
And there’s also the magic of this job opportunity here, which still feels hard-to-believe and serendipitous and utterly delightful. That magic might require its own post.
Here’s the thing about being alone and doing scary things: Being alone and doing scary things makes a lot of space for hearing your own voice and trusting your own decisions.
For me, having too much input from others clouds things, makes them hard to feel, and makes it hard to make decisions that feel true and solid and good. Going out on a limb and choosing yourself, no matter how unsure others might feel about it, continually proves to be wise. Nothing is promised. Nothing is a given. Everything is temporary, anyway.
End the relationship that isn’t working. Drive the sixteen hours. Choose the new city. Do the thing that lights you up.
*It feels hard to write anything in the current climate without also acknowledging how utterly privileged I am to have the life that I have. Certainly not everyone can make these choices, and I am grateful.
