I am back on the East Coast.
My Houston goodbyes were simple, another reminder that my life is, in fact, not a movie, and sometimes good things just end without fanfare or drama or the perfect amount of closure.
Newly returned, everyone has questions for me, and for the first time in my life, I feel like I’m in the middle of an exam that I didn’t study for. My answers change constantly and I hold my breath, waiting for someone to catch on, and for all of my half-truths to unravel.
I am anxious more often than not. Anxiety feels kind of like sadness, except stickier. It follows me, gets caught in my throat and my stomach and my mind and my dreams, clings to my skin like an extra weight I must carry—and despite having felt like this on and off for months, I have yet to find a surefire way to shake it.
Beyond the questions, there have been many much-needed heart-to-hearts with good friends. And consequently, I have been thinking a lot.
I have said that I am searching for meaning, but now that my former life is gone, I am worried that maybe I was wrong, and I already had exactly that in the people and the career that I left behind—maybe I just couldn’t see it.
Maybe timing has more to do with happiness than I have been giving it credit for, and maybe my adventures are only causing me to miss out on creating the stability that I crave.
Or maybe I am—and always have been—more in control than I thought. If so, this past year has been full of arguably too many mistakes on my part, and maybe all I am doing now by giving up everything that I know and love, is tempting fate.
And of course, there is always the possibility that I am just thinking too much.
I spent four days in the woods hiking with my sister, and felt more in tune with the universe than I ever had before. Maybe in the end, it’s all about trust. In everything and everyone around me, but most importantly, in myself.
Easier said than done.