Notes on Places

Notes on Places

I grew up in a cold, flat place. A place where summer explodes into three-month orgies of insects, humidity, and sweat, where winter descends as a cage. A place that prides itself on survival—of weather and of its own obscurity—and on treasures that appear dusty and dull among the glittering jewels of wilder landscapes. A place with boats and beer and biting black flies, with road rage and bigotry and hedonistic culinary delights. A place where time is measured in snowfall and relationships in perceived slights.

When I visit, I’m colder. Meaner. I run along trenches of neuroses and angst, unable to climb someplace warmer, sunnier, calmer.

Maybe environment shapes a person, and interminable months of solitude, daily battles against elements, and vast expanses of nothing—no mountain to change your vantage or sea to carry you away—turn one inward. Maybe it’s easier to harbor resentments in dark, heated rooms, with howling gusts of freeze between you and your nearest neighbor. Maybe a brief burst of green feels important, magical, pride-worthy when it punctuates intolerable gray.

Increasingly, it seems as if every place I go is a variation on a theme. Beautiful sights blend together. Is this picture of leaves any more interesting than this picture of rocks? How is this sweeping panorama more remarkable than the last? Palm trees and cacti or granite and pines, prairie dogs in a canyon or seagulls on a pier, serene Caribbean green or thrashing Atlantic gray—it’s all lovely, all the same.

 

 

My ex-husband is selling the house we bought together. As I scroll through photos of the listing, staged to reflect impeccable realtor tastes, I drift into memory.

I see the dining room floor and remember the muffin tin we filled with kibble for the cat who’d otherwise wolf and gulp. I see the living room and remember those black velvet Craigslist chairs, where we’d perch for Futurama, hot cocoa spiked with peppermint schnapps, and countless rounds of gin rummy. I see the kitchen and remember his meticulous vegetable-chopping, the slow-growing piles of tidy onion cubes juxtaposed with flurries of broccoli florets, pepper seeds, and mushroom bits amassing around me.

I see the master bedroom and remember sleeping beside him, skin to skin, safe. I see the second bedroom and remember hiding, crying, cowering from persistent banging on the locked door, rejecting call after call, pleading, “Please let me sleep.”

I remember weeping to melancholy chords as I moved garments from drawer to cardboard box, and he in the next room, seated in the cheap green chair at the expansive wooden desk where I planned to write and create and flourish, looking out that window, at that enormous tree, for years to come.

What would it feel like to inhabit those rooms now, to drift across old familiar floorboards, across time, into old familiar pain?

 

A pleasant pulse beats in Joshua Tree, and it feels like her comfortable company, her smile after we kissed, the shape of her—impossible—overlooking vast desert. She wore my hat and smiled over her shoulder as I photographed her skipping over otherworldly rocks. A gazelle, my gazelle, and I was falling more than she ever knew.

Months later, her hips would haunt the walls of my tent, even alone, even in the dark, when I could no longer see the sand, the stone, the vast purple sky reminding me of that day. Even then, I felt her. I saw her hips, plain as the coyote’s call—I could bite them—and it felt like falling then, too.

In every hardware store, I’m eight years old. I’m high on my father, on Dad Time and the sugar he would have fed us—my sister’s and my love was as easy as a Hostess cupcake back then.

Rows of screws and lumber, ceiling fans and light fixtures, router saws and siding samples, conjure a giddiness in me. No matter how 32-years-old I am outside those walls, inside I want to run down aisles and scream-laugh until they ask me to leave, like they did that one time in the Fleet Farm Christmas display, even though it was their own fault for creating a wonderland that so seduced and delighted dad-high daughters.

London sinks my stomach. In its streets, I simmered. Resentment boiled. Blackness infected my heart.

An ill friend begged my love—my friendship and understanding—and I spat vitriol in his face.

He loomed like an insect in every corner of the city, a six-foot mantis stalking Trafalgar Square, Buckingham Palace, and that godforsaken bridge. He was everywhere, and I tried to drink him away.

Loud, barking, indiscreet, I martyred myself before our mutual friends. I loathed him and my own self-pitying tears.

Shame crept in slowly, over months and years, as I realized the person I’d become, the vulgar insensitivity I’d displayed in those darkened pubs. I made amends where possible, but no apologies could wash stain of my behavior. It lives deep in the threads of that gray city, and if I never return, I’ll never miss it.

Maybe each new place is a blank canvas, and we paint our emotions, experiences, and memories onto it. Maybe that’s why everywhere feels the same. Exhilarating at first, novelty soon becomes a web of foibles and entanglements. Nostalgia or regret. I drink too much and run off with a Montenegrin here; I drink too much and run off with an Australian there. I climb to this vista; I climb to that vista. Sprawling cities; sprawling wilderness. Him; him; her; them.

 

Last night, I walked into a bar, and the bartender greeted me by name. “Hi, Meghan! How was the drive up from Freedom?” He remembered the town I live in, after meeting me once, a week prior.

Back in Minnesota and California, I stood in conversation circles for months with people who acknowledged me less. I frequented a coffee shop, half a block from home, for years without establishing first-name familiarity. I shared actual walls with people I never even bothered to meet.

In cities of 3 million residents, I grew accustomed to anonymity, to being just another face, another customer, another set of tail lights in a traffic jam.

How strange to be noticed.

Some people’s entire lives play out in a sitcom set of locations. A home, a workplace, a gathering spot. They toil and fight and fall in and out of love, all within familiar walls.

If my life had been smaller, if I grew up among a knowable population, in knowable places—if I were known—would I feel more certain, not only of myself, but of my ability to comprehend the world? Would the complex feel simple, graspable? Would I resent those crying nuance and bias and systems of oppression, had my life been filled not with systems but with people, with Jim at the corner store and Mary at church?

 

Travelers scatter themselves across the globe, snacking on sights and people and frivolities worldwide, dropping crumbs along the way. We flit and pollinate, carrying pieces of places we’ve been, never staying long enough to wear trenches in the ground.

Travel farther, travel wider, experience more.

Maybe in a foreign place, an Asian place, or an impoverished place, I’ll find some answer. High on a mountain or deep in a jungle, I’ll feel whole. If I hear the right life story or find the right community, I’ll fall in love with living and want to keep doing it, year after year, decade after decade. Instead of trudging through an endless string of days, cycling patterns I’m unable to break, or performing existence like a trussed-up actor on an overcrowded stage, I’ll hunger for waking and thirst for another opportunity to breathe, to experience, to be.

I just have to find the right place.

Looking Back

Looking Back

In summer 2016, I took a road trip. Las Vegas (ugh), Zion, Moab, Salt Lake City, and the Redwood Forest—places I’d never seen.

At the time, I sought refuge from an emotional spring. I’d broken up with someone who’d been my best friend for the better part of nine months and terminated a pregnancy we’d created DURING said breakup. While I had no reservations about choosing to treat my fetal infestation, the process was still intense. Not only are you flooded with a mind-addling (SOUL-addling) bonanza of hormones, but you can’t talk about it in polite society. You risk making people uncomfortable, even offending them to their core. I mean, what would happen if your happily pregnant and adamantly pro-life boss found out? How would that affect your relationship?

I thought I was lucky to have a partner in crime, that even though we’d broken up I could still talk to Sperm Guy about what was going on, but that turned out to mostly be me comforting him as he dealt with his feelings about getting me pregnant. (You’d think the person who spends three hours on the shower floor violently expelling her uterine lining and EVERY OTHER THING INSIDE HER BODY would be the one who gets to cry, but no.)

I was angry, lonely, and spent. The road trip was an escape.

As I drove across the desert and its miles of nothingness, passing signs that warned NEXT SERVICE 179 MILES, I fell in love. Expansive landscapes felt promising, like I could disappear into them and the sheer volume of space would overwhelm the thundercloud in my head. Heat enveloped me and made the world immediate. I had no emotions to tend—mine nor anyone else’s—and needed only to deal in the present. Ration your water. Finish the hike before dark. Find a place to sleep. I felt capable and free.

One morning I watched sunrise from the porch of a tiny crossroads motel in the Nevada outback, surrounded on all sides by unmarred horizon, and realized I could live this way full-time. Present. Detached. Peaceful. I didn’t need to go back to my cubicle and spend days jabbering on social media. I didn’t need cities and money and stuff. I didn’t even need vegan Thai takeout. Rather, I needed nature and solitude and reprieve—a quieter place and a slower pace.

Back in San Diego, I became obsessed with moving to the desert. I scoured classifieds in Moab and fantasized about opening a queer-friendly bed & breakfast. I told everyone who would listen about my plans, and smart friends talked me out of them.

In many ways, they were right to caution me, to probe into motives and ask important logistical questions, like how was I going to make money and with whom would I socialize? (I’m not exactly Mormon-friendly, lest the beginning of this post left you with any doubts.) They were understandably nervous and urged me to think through my decision. My therapist suggested I try to compromise, to capture some of that desert feeling in the sturdy, stable life I’d established for myself in San Diego. Maybe all I really needed was more camping weekends.

I heeded their advice (to an extent). I hiked more. I prioritized exercise and wellness. I stopped dating men. I visited new places. I leaned into my routine and tried to take comfort in its stability. I even bought a book called Designing Your Life and performed its life-optimization exercises.

My itch persisted.

In November, the world turned upside down. On the ninth, many of us awoke to a country that hated us more loudly and vehemently than we even knew possible. We felt betrayed, bereft, bereaved. We grieved.

Relationships fractured in the coming months as once-reliable communities struggled to support each other. No one had the emotional reserves to lift up anyone else. We mourned as a collective, and as the horrors of our new reality crescendoed, many of us retreated inward. The tone and tenor of our entire lives shifted in those months, and those of us who were most excited about the history we were about to make, who not only emphatically supported but wholly adored her, were hit hardest.

With my favorite people laid low, I turned elsewhere. I turned to a toxic fling for catharsis. I turned to impulse travel (Colombia is a great place to remind you how lucky we still have it here, to be honest). I turned to booze, binge-eating, and Netflix. I turned to late nights scrolling social media for no reason. I turned to weed. Nothing worked, and the world got darker.

Life in a cubicle became untenable. In true Office Space irony, I achieved more success the less I cared. I’d spend entire days on Twitter, watching rights and protections vanish for the most vulnerable people in this country, seeing our indignation equated with their hatred, and reeling from my own blindness to the gurgling wells of sewage our new leader had so easily tapped. Occasionally, I’d manage an hour of focus to whip together a few recruiting emails, and I’d receive undue praise. They slated me for promotion.

I wanted to leave more than ever.

My mind was stuck on desert moments, the feelings of peace and freedom I couldn’t replicate in day-to-day life. I wasn’t sure how others were handling it, how they could stomach the astonishing indecencies—cruelties—that pummeled us daily. Maybe their families or partners kept them grounded. Maybe they lived in blissful ignorance. Maybe their skin was thicker than mine. I didn’t know. I only knew I’d reached a breaking point, and the only thing that gave me any hope was the prospect of leaving.

So, I left. I put in notice, packed my bags, and drove away.

Fast forward to today. I’m on a porch in rural Maine watching leaves ride a cool breeze to our lakefront lawn, and the question I can’t answer drums a persistent beat: Why?

Why Maine? Why did I even leave? Why would I sever ties with everything and everyone so good in San Diego? Why was a salary and promotion and comfortable workspace not enough? Why do I feel like a whole different person, someone alien and removed from the one who led such a great life in California? Why am I alone?

Somewhere in the chaos of leaving and the trials of traveling thousands of miles across the country, I lost sight of the reality that had pushed me out the door. Instead of recalling the ache at the center of my days and the existential weight of my routine, I romanticized that life into a montage of sunshine and smiles. I started to tell people—and really believed—that I’d been HAPPY in San Diego. In fact, I was so happy, I had to try something else. Somehow that story made sense, and I told it often.

I didn’t realize that by erasing the uglier truths of my life in California, I was heaving responsibility for my pain—which hadn’t magically dissolved the moment I left town—right onto life on the road. Every bad feeling I already had was amplified by regret and a profound sense of loss. I made the wrong choice, as I failed to connect with yet another old friend. If I’d stayed, I’d still be happy, as I cried down wooded trails. Why did I leave such a good life? as I checked dwindling bank accounts.

I’m no stranger to this particular breed of nostalgia. Nearly every relationship I’ve had has been more romantic in retrospect than it ever was at the time (with the notable exception of The Affair, which felt earth-shattering as it happened but looks pathetic and meek in the rearview mirror). I tend to hold moments and minutiae dearer than daily realities. It’s not the hours of Bernsplaining that dance through my mind (yes, I get it, HE WOULD’VE WON, of course, but could you please just take off your pants?) but those three minutes when he played the new Paramore single and danced for me. That was love, as I listen on repeat.

Nostalgia is tricky. While it’s pleasant and seductive to stroll through happy memories, to keep the best of your experiences and discard the worst, you can find yourself disconnected from past realities that got you where you are today. You’re mired in effect without clear insight into the cause. You’re adrift and so convinced your stable, structured life was everything you ever wanted, you think you must be broken to have left it.

Until writing this post, I thought I was broken.

Keeping the good is important, and I think I’ll always be inclined pluck shiny, beautiful moments from piles of gray days, to hover over pictures of a smile in Joshua Tree and wonder why I ever let her go. Held hands, not halitosis. Beaches, not traffic jams. Belly rubs, not litter boxes. I prefer my memories with a rosy tint.

Equally important, though, is keeping your reasons. You stay grounded by facing unpleasant truths that flesh out your narrative, by being honest with yourself about Before Times. Running around with delusions about the past’s perfection is how we end up with unhinged notions like making America great again, as if we should regress to some point in our history instead of striving for a better future.

Histories are lessons, not goal posts.

I may not have it all figured out, but neither did past versions of me. I hope I can remember that.

 

Are You My Self?

Are You My Self?

In 2012, fresh off a marriage that ended in an affair with a married man, out of work and out of money, deep in a torrential storm of men who ranged from unsuitable to actually despicable, consumed by vodka, powered by ramen, and spiraling before a public audience, 140 characters at a time, I started a blog called According to Others. Each entry was a comment someone had made to and about me—an unnerving mix of praise and censure.

A colossal fuckup.

More powerful than you realize.

Beautiful, astonishingly beautiful.

Perpetually aggrieved.

You carry such beauty and sharp language in your ravenous jaw. A tiger without a leash.

You have devoured me and everything I sought to protect. 

Entry upon entry of others’ feedback, impressions, and reactions to me. I hoped the collection would create some kind of whole, that the pieces would gel into a cohesive picture of who I was.

Because I was in such turmoil—and uncomfortably self-aware about that fact—I couldn’t trust my own perception. I was an unreliable narrator, and nothing the mirror or any inner monologue could tell me was sturdier, more certain, or less refutable than the observations of others. I believed they knew something I didn’t.

Somewhere along the line, I stopped relying on others’ opinions of me as gospel. (I started to notice this peculiar thing where different people had their own experiences and biases and agendas that colored their ideas of how I should be, often cramming me into empty spaces they’d carved in their own lives without much regard to whether I fit or even wanted to be there, almost as if they were deeply flawed humans who had even less idea about who I was than I did??? Weird.)

I retired the blog. I sought therapy. I tried to give many fewer fucks.

I also moved and picked up a job, hobbies, and lifestyles that offered labels and easy identity. I wasn’t no one and nothing. I was a financial writer. Comedian. Hiker. Feminist. Vegan. Podcaster. Queer. (Not that my sexuality is a “lifestyle” I “picked up,” but I did come out and start flagging pretty hard.)

Now I’ve added “nomad” to the mix, and frequent travel has made me realize how much more nebulous the concept of self is than these simple labels would suggest. While I’m still a queer-vegan-feminist-podcaster-hiker-comedian-writer wherever I go, I’m different in different places. In Minnesota, I’m neurotic. I’m hyper. I’m pure, gaping need. In San Diego, I’m relaxed. Confident. Adaptable. In Maine, I’m… well, it may be too soon to tell. Mostly, I’m obsessively checking locks and trying not to be bothered by the lamp that keeps turning itself on and off in my room. (THIS BIG COUNTRY HOUSE THAT I’M IN ALL BY MYSELF IS NOT HAUNTED AND EVERYTHING IS FINE SHHHHHHH.)

Each place conjures a different set of qualities, but each quality must be derived from the same pool. Somewhere in me these traits lurk, swirling together in a massive stew, until something reaches in and draws them out.

Mostly, I think it’s people who have this effect, and my reactions to places are reactions to the people in them. People in the Midwest fixate on social hierarchies and strive to fit you in one. People in Los Angeles fixate on ambition and wonder what they might be able to get from you. People in San Diego fixate on pleasure and want to know how much fun you are to be around. People in Maine fixate on… again, I don’t know yet because I’ve been extremely alone in this house for days with nothing but Tinder for socializing and boy, let me tell ya, Tinder in rural Maine is not the thrill ride of groovy, whipsmart sexpots you’d expect. (First housemate arrives tomorrow, praise Cheezus.)

While I know others’ opinions are not the correct place to seek your identity, when I’m alone, there’s no external reaction to throw myself against, nothing and no one to be anything for. I’m not neurotic when I’m sitting on the porch listening to rain, and I’m not charming when I’m kayaking across the lake. I’m neither kind nor cruel, generous nor selfish. I’m effectively nothing but a set of biological functions wandering around and waiting to be fed.

Yet some thread connects the vodka-ramen-fueled Minneapolis serial-dater to the kombucha-sipping San Diego hiker. Both of those people were me, and I carry their memories everywhere I go. Some kissed a tall carpenter on a bridge over the Mississippi, and that same I crunched trail mix atop El Cajon Mountain.

I feel variable, blank, and trapped all at once.

A friend recently said they wished they could travel around, too. “I think I really just want to run away from myself,” they said, and I wonder if that’s possible. In some ways, you’re you wherever you go, haunted by the same ghost-thoughts, burdened by the same past. In other ways, removing yourself from people and places that stir pain—that conjure versions of yourself you’d rather not trot before an audience—can liberate you. You can be a better, or at least alternate, version of you.

When I crossed from Michigan to Ontario on my way to Maine, my trunk once again filled with everything I own, the border guard (border crossings are my new least-favorite place, for the record) said, “You sure move a lot. Running from something?” He seemed to be joking and waved me through without a response, but my mind produced an answer anyway.

Myself.

I may never be able to escape the sting of my past and the selves who hurt, maimed, and devoured, but I can run far from the people and conditions that enabled them. Maybe someday I’ll stumble on a self that feels right, that washes out the dark corners and offers some sense of certitude. Or maybe I’ll keep running, slipping into ever-changing spaces, and carrying old ideas to new places. Maybe that’s all I can hope to do—to be.

 

 

Anyway

Anyway

Five days ago I saw my first geyser. Driving through Yellowstone, I gasped when sprays of water appeared on the horizon. Steam from yet-unknown sources drifted into view, and my wide eyes drank in every detail. Cracks in the white earth. Skeletal trees punctuating vast expanses. Orange and teal and salt-white mingling in impossible pools, every groove and depth visible through pristine crystal-water. Steam billowing from rock mouths, sighing the earth’s sulphuric breath. Mud bubbles popping in gurgling gray puddles. The spasmodic gushing of geysers minora—less-impressive peers of their older, more faithful cousin.

I was enraptured.

Beside me, bustling crowds took in the same views, and a hipstery part of my brain rued their presence in this private moment of joy. THIS IS MY NATURE AND YOU’RE RUININNNNNNG ITTTTTT. My presence in their experience was, of course, perfectly innocuous and benign. They were not at all bothered by the way I sidestepped their meandering hordes of strollers and sticky fingers to wriggle my single-person way to the next vista at a far faster clip than they could dream of. (Look, I’m not begrudging a child’s exposure to natural wonders, but if you’re puttering about the boardwalk in a cloud of crumbs and chaos, I’m going to unceremoniously get the fuck around you. Moving fast is my childfree privilege, and I’ll damn well take advantage.)

At one point, I started second-guessing myself. I felt a bit foolish to be among SO MANY people having the exact same experience as I was. Nothing was remarkable, unique, or exceptional about what I was doing, and aren’t Americans supposed to be exceptional at all costs? Isn’t radical individualism the way of our people? How could I be interesting or worthy if I’m just another member of a crowd? If I can’t stand out, what’s even the point?

What’s even the point of treating myself to this magnificent display of nature? What’s even the point of bearing witness to the enormity and majesty of our planet? What’s even the point of igniting a billion new neural pathways from the sheer novelty of the scenes before me?

I actually thought that—what’s even the point—for the briefest moment before realizing I was being a real knucklehead (no offense to the knucklehead community).

No matter where I travel, someone will have gone before me, and they’ll plant their OMG I Loved It There flag in the Facebook comments—but I’ll go anyway. No matter what I write, someone will have pontificated on the same subject, probably in more elegant language or more distinguished outlets than I can ever hope to achieve—but I’ll write it anyway. No matter what mountain I climb, some asshole will be at the summit an hour ahead of me, hardly breaking a sweat and wearing a BabyBjörn—but I’ll climb it anyway.

Because the point is just to do the thing. Even if it’s not exceptional, you do it anyway.

Standing in front of those geysers, my heart soared and ached for the magic of what I saw, and maybe each heart in the throngs surrounding me felt the exact same thing. Maybe our private moments were communal moments, and we’re identical bundles of chemicals and cells, of pre-programmed reactions that span age, race, gender, class, ability, and any other difference we can observe or invent. Maybe my experience was wholly unremarkable, but I still got to have it.

If I sat around waiting for singular experiences, for the opportunity to be completely unique, I’d have missed out on that piece of joy. I’m so glad I went anyway.

Performing happiness

Performing happiness

My favorite days on the trip so far have been those spent in other people’s homes. A few friends have been kind enough to let me crash on their sofas, and dropping into the warmth of a place where people actually live—with its personality and memories and myriad little markers of daily life—has been such a welcome respite from the sterility of places where people stay.

Each time, I’ve left completely refreshed and on high, even when I’d thought the only thing I could stomach that day was isolation in the form of snack-scarfing and an epic Netflix binge. (God that sounds good right now.)

 

Earlier this week, I hit a low. Through a series of events that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with circumstances in someone else’s life, a person I love cut me out. It was done swiftly, unceremoniously, and without warning. This person had been among the most important people to me this past year—someone whose presence had direct and profound influence on my growth—and I’m left with a hole where friendship and unshakable faith had lived. My week was a thundering cloud of betrayal, grief, and heartache. I wanted to hide from the world and nurse my wounds in private, not roll around playing Happy Tourist for Facebook.

Still, the road needed to be driven. Work needed to be done. And people needed to be visited. I had no choice but to rally.

When you drop into someone’s home, you can’t bring a stormcloud with you. You can’t show up and mope and cry and complain about how DEVASTATINGLY AND UTTERLY UNFAIR it is that someone turned their back on you. I mean, you can certainly tell your story—and believe me, anyone who would listen this week heard mine—but you can’t wallow. You have to be alert to the moods and rhythms around you and try to contribute something positive, or at least be an innocuous addition, to the environment you’ve been welcomed into.

In the throes of my pain, the energy required to be even neutral seemed impossible. I remember sitting in my car in Portland before meeting a friend for dinner, which would be followed by a night on her sofa. Fatigue pulled my face into a sour droop, and I felt hollow. As I sipped the coffee required to work up an ounce of enthusiasm, all I wanted to do was curl into a ball and cry. I couldn’t imagine actually socializing like a human. I was a PAIN GOBLIN.

But then a funny thing happened. I did it anyway.

I went to dinner and behaved in a decent, verifiably human way. (I think? Maybe she has a different read on it, and I was unwittingly goblining it up.) We had nice conversation and went to her home, where her wife and children were so bright and beaming and lovely, my heart burst into a million pieces.

At some point, the effort to perform happiness turned into actual good feelings. I left elated, ready to face the world again.

A similar thing happened in Seattle. I was one again reeling from The Drama™ (look, I, too, thought I was too old for the phrase “blocked me on Snapchat” to feature into my life in any kind of way, much less elicit real tears, but here I am, MILLENNIAL AF) and didn’t necessarily want to take a ferry out to a remote area to stay with someone I barely knew. But I went. And I put on my happiest, most charming face, because the less you know someone, the more value you have to offer to earn your place on their sofa. Plus, I was determined to have a good time dammit.

You know what? We had THE BEST TIME. We enjoyed a lovely dinner overlooking the harbor, reveled in being the only two single women in a bar full of hilariously thirsty men (my favorite was the dude who approached and said, “My name is Lee, what’re yours?” then shook our hands and said, “Okay, I’m drunk, that’s all I’ve got,” before scurrying off to steal someone’s drink from the table next to ours), and visited a farmer’s market in the morning. The entire stay was a delight, and I once again left on high.

I’ve seen the concept “fake it till you make it” applied to happiness, notably from Gretchen Rubin, and I think there’s truth in it. Part of what I liked about corporate life is that it forced me to present as someone calm and put together, and in a way, I started to become calm and put together. I don’t know if it works the same for everyone, but I seem particularly susceptible to performing my way into an emotional reality.

On the road, when you’re alone for long stretches of time, it’s easy to let yourself become consumed in the emotions swirling around your own head. You don’t have anyone to fake it for.

As I plan my journey (and life), I’ll have to make a point of adding Performance Touchpoints along my path—time spent in environments that force me to behave like the person I want to be. To wit, I’m on my way to Vancouver for Design & Content Conference, where there will be friends and warmth and at least three full days of performing my Networking Best. I imagine I’ll leave there an emotional camel with a hump full of happiness that will carry me all the way to Minnesota and the comfort of my family.

As for The Drama™, I’ve mostly managed to put it out of my head. I’m coaching myself to remember that betrayal doesn’t erase all the good that came from a relationship. I’m still allowed to hold onto that and to the moments we shared. Whether or not we ever speak again, those belong to me, to us, and that’s all I can comfort myself with right now.