On the verge of nervous breakdown. I sat here for hours staring at the ceiling. Fighting with unproductive thoughts of being productive. I know I fear change. I know this about myself. I know that en route to a new school—the public kind, age 12, I distracted myself with new clothes when what I longed for was pleated skirts and knee socks and a much smaller, more familiar pond. I know that my anxiety-ridden soul cried every morning in the car and my mom would pray prayers to calm me down. I know that despite the test of time and puberty, I am still that tiny soul wearing manufactured confidence like new shoes in scared feet.
12 years later and still a toe-dipper rather than a cannon ball. Easing away from Cincinnati and into Chicago. I’ll miss the comforts of this pond. I’ll miss the way I felt here and now. I’ll miss the hilltop. The lookout points I’d wander to, sometimes out-of-breath and aimlessly, while other times with focused purpose.
I’ll miss the conversations that formed my grown self. I’ll miss even more, the people that inspired those conversations. I’ll miss waking up on my third floor tree-house room, staring out the window at the sunrise/set and wishing I could, but knowing I can’t, bottle the moment and hold onto it forever.
I’ll miss people I don’t even know. Like the beautiful white haired lady at church, who smiles a knowing smile. Like in just some passing or shaking of hands, she could gaze and know better than I, the things on my heart.
I’ll miss wine. And how it matched the walls that held no artwork. Just red. I’ll miss this being the backdrop of my adventures; the host to shared laughs, and meals, and meatballs. I’ll miss sillier things than meatballs. Like the stupid frozen pipes—which brought us maintenance mike and frozen floors and stacks of dishes that yielded McDonalds breakfasts.
I’ll miss the days of unemployment—really, I will. I hope I’ll never forget that frantic scramble coupled with hope. I hope I’ll remain thankful for that—knowing that it shattered me and scared me and shook me silly. Knowing that it inspired oil changes and deeper questions and new opportunities. And it made me fight to stay afloat, rather than obediently drift in a stream’s narrowly projected course.
I’ll miss who I am here. Not that moving cities changes you, but it upsets the equilibrium a bit. It jogs a cadence that was familiar and comfortable. But change is not supposed to be comfortable. Neither is growing. It’s like wearing a too-small t-shirt. Maybe it was once your favorite t-shirt. You looked good in it. It was cozy and hugged you in all the right places. Exercising different wants and needs grew you from that t-shirt though. And it feels a little too snug. It feels constricting. You wonder if you need a new t-shirt.
And when you finally get that new t-shirt, it’s going to feel really different. You hope people like your new t-shirt. You hope it’s not an itchy one. Or one that easily snags and tears. You realize this new t-shirt is slightly more expensive and requires a little more maintenance. You wonder if you can keep up with the needs of this new t-shirt. If you can pull it off.
And the only way to know is to shed that too-tight layer. And slip on the new one. And the transition between shirts and cities, I imagine, is how one should feel mid-air of a cannonball.
Here’s to the toe-dippers going out on limbs. To trying things that scare you. To making a splash. Buying a new shirt. Because it doesn’t have to be scary. It can be fun and exciting too.
Chicago here I come.