If the lights can draw you in and the dark can take you down, then love can mend your heart. But only if you’re lucky now.

Three weeks and a day. 22 days. 528 hours to acclimate to new surroundings.

Needless to say, I’m still adjusting.

And I suppose I haven’t had a lot to say about it.

Between making friends, missing soulmates and trying to love every moment I have, I think my emotions have been in shock.

So I haven’t said much. Because transitions come with a lot of baggage that we slowly shed, and I haven’t shed mine yet. I moved but the baggage is still there, so why would I talk about that?

Because in 50 years this entire thing is going to look completely different.

In its entirety, this has been three of the greatest weeks of my life. I’ve seen kindness in strangers, found laughter in new friends, felt butterflies in a spark and walked away from some hurt.

I’ve been let down by people I never thought would let me down and felt my heart burst out of pure joy.

I’ve spent countless moments thinking about how lucky I am to breathe. Because sometimes its as simple as being thankful for life. Starting somewhere – at the core of it all – is vital to making some moments special. So I did. So many times.

I’ve seen the sun shine in new ways, and set with a whole new array of colors. I’ve spent hours thinking about how that same sun sets on so many others who are on their own journeys, but found the same grace in those moments. I felt lucky beyond understanding and more thankful than words could ever describe.

I’ve worried about money in ways I haven’t worried about money in years. I’ve found peace in faith that I haven’t felt in as much time.

I’ve felt a song lyric rip completely through my heart and soul, which is why I chose here in the first place.

I’ve met broken women finding their way back to life. I’ve felt my heart break for them while feeling so proud of strangers, and found an indescribable amount of hope in them.

I’ve spent more time talking and less time writing. Which felt unnatural and uncomfortable, but necessary and new. I’ve put my emotions on display in an awkward manner, and chiseled a few bricks away in the process. I’ve found comfort in words in a new way.

I said goodbye without explanation and without guilt. Because I realized I’m worth more than that and they’re not worth the words. And that was a good enough resolution.

And today I feel peaceful, joyful and thankful – I have no idea where this rollercoaster is headed, but it feels right. And that’s all I ever wanted.


5 a.m.

There’s something about silence at 5 a.m. that sounds like nothing else – at 2 or 3 or even 4 silence is deafening. It’s a reminder of many things; anxiety, uncertainty, loneliness – sometimes an odd mixture of all three.

But 5 a.m. feels different. In the most elementary way, it’s a reminder that I made it through another night. That a new day is soon dawning and I’m still breathing. The silence reminds me to say thank you for that, and remember not to take it for granted.

The quiet reminds me that I’m here alone, but less in a lonely way and more in a blessed way. That I’m lucky enough to be capable of spending parts and pieces of my life alone. I’m not anywhere in life I don’t want to be nor spending it with anyone I don’t want to spend it with.

Occasionally I hear a train in the distance and it reminds me of the past. I think of how many people in how many years have felt the same things; how they’ve been reminded of fears, hopes, dreams, joy, happiness and mortality all in this same moment in their mornings years previously. I wonder how their lives turned out. I hope they kept their faith. I pray they felt hopeful and joyful for the rest of their days, and continued to dream as big as the sky and had days that felt so perfect they thought they lived in the clouds.

And I guess that’s what I like about 5 a.m. It’s full of promise. A promise of things to come. Of my own hopes and dreams and even fears realized. It makes me happy to be alive, and so grateful to be living another day.