I forgive myself for not knowing. I forgive myself for not having a 5-year plan and still not having a clue what I want to be when I grow up. I forgive myself for nearly breaking into a cold sweat when I think about adult things like IRAs and retirement plans and marriage and babies.

I forgive myself for not always cleaning the kitchen after I cook – at least I’m feeding myself (generally) healthy things. I forgive myself for the graveyard of empty water bottles living on the passenger side of my car. And for the pile of clean laundry that seems never to leave the floor near the dryer. Also for that damn kitchen table I still have sitting in my apartment, the one without the legs.

I forgive myself for not eating dark, leafy greens every day, even though I know my body really appreciates it when I do. I forgive myself for sometimes choosing happy hour over a run. I forgive myself for spending far too much money on that Marc Jacobs messenger bag – I do get a lot of use out of it.

I forgive myself for this biting desire to run away, for my wanderlust. I need to use it to my advantage, instead of cursing myself for it.

I forgive myself for those times when other people’s feelings were caught in the fray of choices that I needed to make, for me.

I forgive myself for that night by the pool when I thought it would be a good idea to pour myself a mugful of tequila. I forgive myself for texting inappropriate things on nights like the aforementioned. I forgive myself for my penchant to communicate with persons I know I shouldn’t.

I forgive myself for feeling FEELINGS.

I forgive myself for it all. I do. I do.

…I’m trying.

I hate the term “follow your gut.” I think it’s the use of “gut” – an ugly word, too diminutive, short, casual to describe a very powerful feeling. Intuition? Now that’s much better.

Leave.

For me, I see intuition as a little compass that lives deep in my chest and pushes me in the right direction, if I remain still enough to let it calibrate. Or maybe I’d describe it more like a persistent whisper that consistently provides commentary on my life. It doesn’t give me much… it often gives me frustratingly little.

Observe, watch. Listen.

I scoff at the idea of destiny and fate; I’m something of a cynic and that your path is already determined seems much too simple. But I think that whisper is the closest thing we have to fate. It provides a roadmap that, if followed, will propel you towards who you are to become.

Words.

This feeling is both a sense of comfort and source of heartache at the same time. Because sometimes you don’t want to hear what that whisper is telling you. It’s too vague or too hard. Following it will hurt you and maybe some other people, too.

No, that’s not the one.

The real trick, I think, is allowing yourself to hear it. Because once you do, damn, it’s hard to brush off. If you try to ignore it, pretend not to hear, that whisper will slowly but surely become more firm, eventually turning into a howl. And living your life with that howl going on inside you, that’s hell.

Not that one, either.

But as much as it hurts and as much I may have kicked and screamed and stomped my foot and told it “NO! YOU’RE WRONG!”…when I listen, it’s never failed me. Not a once.

Be gentle with yourself, you’re doing ok. It will all make sense. 

For most of life I’ve had a longing, a tugging feeling that I just need to go. To do and see and experience that which I’m not currently doing, seeing, experiencing. To be hurled into a completely different situation, a new start. To shape myself all over again.

In the past, I’ve reacted to my unhappiness, melancholy, or dissatisfaction by listening to that longing, following it wherever it called me. Following that urge was the easy answer; I could simultaneously get away while collecting new experiences. Following it has led me to Maine, DC, France, Tennessee, New York City, and most recently, Dallas.

I first remember feeling this in high school; my goal at that point was to get the hell out of Texas, to go away far, far away. Because even though I loved my friends and my school, I saw Dallas as a fake, plastic city and I needed to leave and go somewhere with culture and history and importance.

So I did.

I went to college as far away as I could, the furthest of any of my classmates, in fact. I started there in the fall, in a school in a quaint little New England town. And I was downright elated that I was finally where I was supposed to be. It was sickeningly picturesque: red brick dorms, hundreds year old buildings named after famous alumni, a campus littered with trees whose leaves were painted brilliant oranges, reds, yellows at the beginning of the school year.

But.

Wouldn’t you know, as much as I tried to ignore it and pretend it wasn’t there, that familiar tugging crept back. Even though this was the place I was supposed to be, even though this is what I’d always wanted…my heart was still pulling me away. That first year of college is when I realized that maybe my desire to go far, far away wasn’t only Dallas’ fault. Maybe it was an inherent part of me.

I’m not really sure what to call it, this tugging feeling, this desire to go. Is it wanderlust? Is it a product of being young? Am I just too choosy? The thing that really gets me about it all is that even once I go and start over somewhere new, I typically end up yearning for the places I left. Never truly satisfied.

Now, I’m here, back in Dallas, and in a place where I’m content…but that longing persists, the strings pulling me away. As much as I try to swallow that feeling and to push away that tugging…I feel it.

I know I should take advantage of the fact that at this point in my life I can just get up and go, relatively easily. Because lord knows that won’t always be the case. So doubtless, though I try to convince myself I won’t… I’ll go. And leave again. And start over, again. And collect more experiences. And collect more failures. And collect more successes.

But I always wonder… Will I ever just be?

I grew up on a playground, surrounded by other little girls in plaid navy jumpers. I’d just started third grade at a new school and watched them all screaming, laughing, chasing each other while I trudged around the exterior, by myself. I’d never known lonely before that.

I grew up in the cafeteria, sitting with nine other boys and girls at a round table after being asked one of those questions for which there really is no answer. “You should talk more…why are you so quiet?” one of them asked. They all looked at me. I don’t remember my response, but I do remember quickly excusing myself to get some frozen yogurt so they wouldn’t see me cry.

I grew up in the dark, dank theater of my school. An older girl conspiratorially whispered to me: “He talks about you every time you’re on stage. He thinks you’re hot.” I remember thinking “Wait, me?” as my cheeks flushed.

I grew up in a parking lot, standing outside my yellow Beetle. Finally telling him (after years and years) that I liked him. His chagrined response of “What, really…you?” crushed me.

I grew up lying in the grass with my friends in the quad of my high school, the sun warming our upturned faces. We were all wearing stage makeup and our hair was curled and pinned and hairsprayed; it was before the evening performance of South Pacific. I remember thinking “Oh, this is what it means to be happy.” Someone captured our photograph.

I grew up in his bedroom, sitting next to him on one of the twin beds, after he said “I love you” much too soon.

I grew up in a shoebox of a dorm room on a Friday night. Alone. Looking out the window at the stately academic buildings on campus, the tall pines, the snow-covered quad. It was everything I’d thought I wanted. But I remember realizing at that moment “Oh yes, this is what loneliness feels like.”

I grew up at a desk in a hallway, sitting at a computer all day. Reading food blogs, trying to look busy, completely disheartened by what my new, “adult” life apparently meant.

I grew up walking to the farmer’s market one afternoon in spring as I listened to that song on repeat. It was before Daylight Savings had begun, so the sun was already low in the sky, casting dark shadows on the sidewalk. Green buds were just starting to bloom in the trees. I finally made a choice I didn’t even know I’d been trying to talk myself out of for months. The realization settled deep into my stomach as I passed the old Carnegie library in Mt. Vernon Square, all marble and columns. I continued to the market where I bought a bunch of zinnias and a wedge of cheese and brushed away tears.

I grew up in a basement apartment. I arrived late and we watched episodes of Top Chef and drank cheap red wine out of mugs. I remember asking myself “What the fuck are you doing?”

I grew up on the floor of a closet. Crumpled in a ball after receiving a series of texts that made me change the way I saw someone I thought I knew.

I grew up in a bar, at a party. Hours in. Hearing something that was said about me, then immediately hearing another person’s unkind editorial on the matter. Shocked at how shitty people can be. I remember promising myself not to trust so easily, to keep my guard up more.

I grew up at brunch one Sunday, surrounded by friends and inappropriate conversations and laughter. The food was fine, there were bagels and lox, hash browns…I had a pizza with an egg on top. It was one of those days that gained a gripping momentum as the afternoon progressed. We eventually ended up at “our bar,” me with my characteristic vodka soda in hand. But it was before that, it was somewhere around my second frozen bellini that I remember thinking “Oh yes, this is happy, this is what I was looking for.”

I grew up there and there and there. All those places, moments shaped and continue to shape me.

on a run through Fair Park.

it is very eerie without the Fair or some other event going on

the majority of my day was spent pantsless.

an excellent Saturday, I’d say.

home sweet apartment.

having entirely too much fun picking out a new pair of specs

#fyw in action.

vodka soda. reflection. necklace.

self portrait in a glass of wine