As I traipse around Memphis with no car and very little energy I have one overwhelming thought running through my mind – Why did I do this? All of the things happening in my life sound like good things when you say them out loud.
“I’m moving to Seattle.”
“I visited the Grand Canyon.”
“I’m flying my cats home with me on Tuesday.”
The responses I get are unanimously encouraging because that’s how you react when someone does something massively life-changing. Unfortunately these platitudes are hollow as birthday wishes on Facebook. Most people are just thinly veiling jealous resentment or straight up apathy.

So I smile and let them tell me about their road trip or the time they visited the Canyon. All the while I’m repressing a constant state of panic that no one takes seriously. I spend my time keeping the quiver out of my voice and fighting back tears. I’m fully convinced that this venture is going to kill me. It’s the only logical answer to this much fear. I’m going to die in the pacific northwest.

No matter how great my fortune seems right now the cold hand of terror is gripping my chest. I can sense my own mortality and only the convention of human existence keeps me going. Those who have gone before me continually assure me I’ll be fine. I just ask them to recall the last time they voluntarily abandoned everything familiar to live completely alone with no solid plan for the future. The most common response is a knowing smile and pat on my shoulder.

I’m never gonna survive this life. But I’ll go down swinging.