I’m already forgetting. My vision blurs over and my eyes fill with tears as I scroll through the feed of photos.
I touch the tiny pictures on the screen, trying to reach through and will myself to that now distant place. I squeeze my eyes shut.
What did it feel like—the dirt beneath my boots and my whole life on my back? How did it taste—the language stuttering off my tongue and the fresh air kissing my lips?
I can’t remember anymore.
My returned life is so full with electronics and emails and work grinds. The hustle. The resumes. The paychecks. The short-lived, empty conversations. The anxiety that sits below the surface of the city air, demanding us all to move faster, faster, faster. Something waits for us, they promise. I’m not sure what.
Life is so full, at times. Coffee, Eat, Work, Sleep, Repeat. It goes on and on, repeating itself. You either run the mill or break out of the cycle. Most keep chugging along like a train destined for no where.
Every time I try to step away, something pulls me back into the dark hole of the grind. It whispers, Keep striving, keep hustling. You are no one unless your name is known. Prove yourself. It sucks me in. I ignore the sirens and red lights, racing past the warning signs. Eager to please; to be heard and known and loved by people I don’t even know.
The day goes on, the clock moves quickly. Before I can breathe it’s over. It’s in the quiet moment of the night—driving home in the dark—when I remember to slow down. To step away. To find peace and sacred space away from this crazy world. Tomorrow, I say, tomorrow will be different.
“You need to clear your antennas,” she says.
I sit cozied into an antique armchair, my feet swinging off to the side; the faux fire heating my toes. I hug my warm coffee mug to my chest.
We’ve only been back in Colorado one week since taking a year to backpack around the globe. The cold, spring weather feels like a refreshing swim. I welcome cozy sweaters after months in Central America’s humidity and heat.
“I can’t see what’s next,” I whisper. “I feel like I always have some sort of direction in life, but not this time. It’s like staring at a concrete wall. I don’t know what to do.”
One of my dearest friends, she stares back at me. Her kids play with puzzles on the floor and the youngest burrows in her lap. Having ten years on me, I scan her face, invoking some of her wisdom.
“You need to clear your antennas,” she repeats.
How though? I wonder.
I close my eyes, embracing the weight of the room; the weight of her words.
When was the last time you thought about your story?
How long has it been since you intentionally wrote a line, a page or a chapter?
It’s easy to forget this; to become trapped in the day-to-day grind. The should be, could be, make more, be more, check out when it’s hard, you’ll never be enough, zone out to the screen version of life.
We quickly fall into monotonous routines and thoughtless schedules. We forget that we are remarkable and unparalleled humans; each person a beating, breathing soul.