I’m sitting in my office. I am surrounded by piles and piles of ‘stuff.’ Upon first glance it’s just papers and books and seemingly unimportant junk that has been carried from house to house to house. But it’s still sitting here, drowning me, because when I take the time to go through it, there is meaning; there are memories on each page, in each piece of battered memorabilia.

I have reached a stage of paralysis. I’m not sure what to do next. Where to focus. Everything feels overwhelmingly difficult and expensive. Life feels unfairly hard. I am on the verge of tears daily … they fall down my face routinely doing seemingly simple things. How did I get here? I wonder, my lips quivering, my hands shaking. How do I get out?

But that’s the real challenge. Because I didn’t accidentally wind up here. I have made the choices that got me here – every single step of the way. I have been searching, aching, wondering where I will find that illusive ‘something’ that will fill me up. It continues to allude me.

I knew when we made this choice that I would be walking away from so many things. I knew that no matter what, I would survive. Because I’ve been doing this my whole life – packing everything into boxes, unpacking it. Beginning again. What I didn’t fully realize until this move was how much I didn’t want to do that anymore. How very much I was searching for home.

Where is home? How do I find it, how do I define it? Is it where I was born? Is it where I last was? I’m not sure. I think I know. I think I’ve figured it out. But knowing that doesn’t change the fact that home isn’t here. Here is where I live. It’s where all my stuff – good, bad or indifferent – now resides. Piles of it. Stuffed into closets, piled in corners. I feel defeated, moving slowly from morning to afternoon to night, not sure what the point is, not sure what I’m doing or more importantly why.

I have sat here, watching the construction, the crazy idiots flying up the street and dodging all the other vehicles and stacks of 2x4s, the neighbors walking their dogs laboriously through the thick, oppressive heat. I have asked myself again and again – what do I want? What am I doing?

I’m 43. I’m just kind of faking it through life. I haven’t done anything noteworthy or extraordinary. What is my plan? What is my endgame? Because a lot of life feels really pointless at the moment. How is it fair that I only get it in retrospect? How have I never learned to get in while I’m in it?

Eli is losing his mind and John has work calls so right now, in this moment, I’m going to take my insane dog for a walk. He’s exhausting but at least he provides purpose.

Xoxo, g