Mine is the last seat on the plane — one of those almost forgotten varieties tucked by the bathrooms, with no window.
So I can’t see the world I’m leaving, but its just as well. As it is, it’s all almost too much to process.
In the last two weeks I have barely stopped moving, my time swallowed up with an incredibly long list of to-dos. I left my job, sold the last of my belongings that won’t fit into my backpack or one of the four boxes I shipped to my parents’ home, said goodbye to dear friends and my home. I set up meetings and doctor appointments and did my best to tie up loose ends big and small and set myself up for success in my new, nomadic life.
Emotions crept in fast, surprising me. Walking away from people I love. Walking away from my home. Carrying everything I own on my back as I trudged slowly and painfully through the airport (as it turns out, stress has a physical effect on your body, and I’m experiencing that phenomenon in my agonizing, aching back).
I’m leaving my home of eight years, a place that I will always hold dear. It feels like I’m leaving a piece of me.
As I took off, tears fell from my eyes and I found I was shaking.
Was I sad? Scared? Excited? Anxious? To be honest, I’m not really sure. The emotions have all rolled into one and I can no longer separate them. It’s overwhelming in a way I couldn’t have even anticipated — I’ve never felt anything like it.
None of this will be smooth — I know that. As I walked through the airport, I realized although I’m carrying only a small day pack and a 40-liter travel backpack, I still have too much stuff. It’s far too heavy. It’s awkward. It’s not functional. I’m only getting started and already I need to shed, more — a frustrating and upsetting thought on the heels of so much life shedding already.
But bumps, bruises and bad backs will come and go, and I’ll figure it all out.
One emotion I haven’t felt an ounce of: regret. I’m in this for the lessons and the struggles as much as I am the sheer joy.
Here we go.