If you’re reading this, you may already know that I’m in the midst of a transition period.
St. Augustine Beach, February 2016 (photo mine)
I’m moving back to St. Augustine.
In fact, I’m moving back in with my parents. At 27. Although I’ll be living in the RV on their property rather than in their house, in many ways, it seems a lot like a regression. Aside from the obvious, this move means I’ll be back in the same town where I finished and graduated college. Because I’m transitioning to a full-time freelance lifestyle, I’ve also decided to take a part time job at Starbucks in order to maintain my healthcare coverage and 401(k), and that’s a (humble, hourly, iffily-paid) job I’ve worked before.
I can’t say I’m not scared.
I’ve spent a lot of my life in transition, always by my own hand — though not always what I’d call “on purpose.” I changed majors five times, transferred four times in undergrad and dropped out of grad school midway through. I’ve moved ten times in the past eight years, an anecdote to which one of my friends, when we were introduced, responded with a knowing smirk and an unfiltered assessment:
Oh, so you have some commitment issues, then?
Walking down the streets of St. Pete tonight on my way home from work, it was difficult not to question my decision. It was a glorious evening: just hitting twilight, 70 degrees. The bars, restaurants and shops downtown were quietly awaiting the rush or closing time, respectively. Their sandwich boards were hand-penned with witty enticements. Work had gone well; I’d finished all I’d set out to do. My coworkers chatted with me amiably, excited for the company’s holiday party tomorrow.
I’ve done this a lot, this transitioning. This not feeling like I quite fit. This itching. This unquenchable curiosity about the next thing, the new thing. How do I get there? Will it be better? What is it, even?
In all my attempts at progress, am I really moving backward?
I can picture the trajectory of my life had I chosen differently at some point along the way: The man I might already have settled down with, the baby I might already have. The wedding. In St. Pete, I imagine myself moving into the senior writer position at work; becoming an actual, steady regular at the Saturday morning market or the yoga studio I sometimes frequent. I wonder about what other long-term hobbies and communities I might have melted into, ones I’ve missed so far for lack of time.
But yet again, I’ve failed to do so. Instead, I’ve spent dozens of hours this past year — maybe hundreds — stuck on I4, shuttling myself back and forth between my two lives.
It isn’t that I haven’t made friends here, insofar as I could given my frequent absences. It isn’t the job. It isn’t even the town, which is vibrant and liberal and shockingly supportive of the arts — qualities that St. Augustine can only kind of lay claim to.
It isn’t any of that.
The main reason I’m leaving — the logical reason, the one I give to strangers, and the one that makes this anything but an insane move — is to help my parents, to spend time with them while I still can. My father just turned 76 and my mother was diagnosed with COPD this year. It’s true that the frequency of my St. Augustine trips has been in response to what was a crisis of her health. Although she’s doing a lot better now, the first letter of that diagnostic acronym still stands for “chronic.” And she wants to do things: to start a garden, to come with me to the gym. And, perhaps for the reasons outlined above, I’m pretty much unattached. Especially after Hurricane Matthew nearly ripped their home to shreds, I couldn’t justify being so close and yet so distant. I have the opportunity to be there, to help them, to not regret these years once more years pass.
And I’m thrilled I get to do that; I’m thrilled to help them clean out their storage unit, sell their excess junk, cut the flab. I’m thrilled to spend umpteen more nights drinking champagne with my mother than I would if I stayed here instead.
But it’s not just all that, either.
It’s me. It’s another itch, more unquenchable curiosity. It’s a craving for a difference in the rhythm of my days. It’s something about wanderlust and independence, something about not being ready to set myself down in one place. Maybe ever.
It might be a character flaw. I’m not sure yet.
And I know my days freelancing won’t be easier than my day job — not by a long shot. I know that St. Augustine, although it’s one of my very favorite places on Earth, lacks resources that surround me here in Tampa, resources I’ve precluded myself from taking full advantage of.
But I also know that this is another open door, another new chapter to explore and make the most of. I know I’ve been counting down the days, aching for them to move faster; I know selling, donating and throwing away my possessions has been cathartic enough to make me cry. I know it feels like going home — a huge relief, since I’d thought for a while I’d lost the sense of home entirely.
And I know, too, that I’m fulfilling a lifelong dream of mine. I’m freelancing. I’m starting my own business! Will it last for the rest of my life? I don’t know. Maybe in ten years, I’ll long for a steady job. Hell, maybe in two.
But for now, I can’t wait to get moving — even if the jury’s out on the direction.