In thirteen days I will be on a plane. I will have gotten my diploma, a piece of paper that verifies how much debt I've accrued and how many dry dusty books I've read. I will have said goodbye to the most wonderful people I've ever met, many for the last time. And I will be closing this chapter of my life, stitching it neatly shut behind me without knowing what's ahead.
When I left Chicago for Seattle four years ago, I was bursting with hope. I'd been trying to break out of the place and the life I'd known for so long, and here was my chance, finally. I was ready for anything, good and bad. And I've been lucky, because most of it, the vast majority really, has been good. No, good doesn't do it justice. It's been tremendous, life-changing, and educational in more ways than I ever expected. I took a risk and, in a rare twist of fate for me, it paid off. It paid off and I am so grateful it did.
Yes, I gave some things up to come here. But the things I gave up then were all maybes, all possibilities, all question marks. I might have found what I was looking for if I'd stayed, but probably not. People looked at me strangely, didn't understand why I thought I needed to leave, to strike out on my own. Some days even I didn't understand why, I just knew it was something that had to happen. I didn't want to spend my life wading among the question marks, and wake up one day with a whole lot of would-haves and should-haves.
What I'm walking away from now is much different. There aren't any maybes here, not really. There are certainties, and a lot of them. I could be happy here for the rest of my life. I would get to keep the friends who have become my family. I would feel safe, surrounded by the amazing landscape that makes up this place. I would get to continue being this version of myself.
But the restless part of me recognizes that for the disadvantage that it actually is. The wanderer inside of me isn't ready to stop moving, to settle for what I've found at 22, even though I feel more alive here than I ever have. There's an optimism in this next step, the biggest question mark I've yet encountered-- if four years here can change me so much for the better, who's to say I can't find even more in the next place I decide to call home? And even if that's not on the table yet, that feeling of instability, of not knowing quite what's going to happen tomorrow, it pushes me to strive for more, to be better. It's the reason I've taken so long writing my novel while I've been here-- I didn't need to use writing as my escape nearly as often as I used to. But do you know what? In the weeks leading up to my departure, I've been more dedicated to it than ever; some part of me feels like if I can just finish telling the story, everything will be okay.
And really, that's been the case my whole life, probably always will be. As long as I can write, as long as I can keep telling stories, things will turn out all right. That, at least, has never been a question mark.
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