Turn the Page

I spent most of May in Denver packing up my house, sorting through personal matters, and trying to figure out the best way to move forward. It was a heavy, difficult time. I spent too much time trapped in my own head, wrestling with regrets. For the most part, my final weeks in Denver were about the mechanics of letting go, rather than giving the place the proper goodbye it deserved.

First things first: the house. I moved into my home in the Jefferson Park neighborhood at the end of 2020. Having spent the pandemic completely alone, my realtor was one of the only people I had seen in person for over a year. I ended up living in that house longer than any other single place in my adult life—by far. 

I love my house. I love my neighborhood. And I truly love my neighbors. Yet, I can’t shake the feeling that I didn’t get to spend enough actual time there. Between my job and a brutal three-hour daily commute, I eventually rented an apartment closer to work during my final year of employment just to avoid the drive. Because of that, while I was friendly with my neighbors, I never got the chance to really know them. Jefferson Park Pub—a local Iowa Hawkeye bar—was a mere two stumbling blocks away, but I rarely patronized the local spots.

The shift in my lifestyle over the years is staggering. When I moved back to the U.S. at the end of 2015, everything I owned fit into a minivan. I remember stopping en route to Tampa just to buy an air mattress to sleep on until I could get a proper bed. In the decade since, I’ve accumulated enough crap to fill a four-bedroom house and a large rooftop patio. It took the movers nine hours to load the truck, even though I did all the packing myself. They casually let me know I had too much stuff. My immediate instinct once the truck was finally loaded? Put it all back.

During those three weeks in Denver, I was a ball of panicked energy. I simply didn't want to let go of my home base. It makes me wonder: when this year of travel is over, will that panic return? Am I just running away to have fun for a year, avoiding my underlying problems instead of dealing with them? Will they just be waiting for me when I get back? I don’t know. To be honest, those doubts made starting this leg of the journey incredibly difficult. I feel better now that I’m on the road, but I’m definitely not out of the woods yet.

I arrived in Denver with a couple of different plans to maintain my Colorado residency. Both involved ex-boyfriends, meaning they were flimsy frameworks at best. Predictably, they fell through.

One situation likely resulted in the end of a long-term friendship—one we had successfully maintained almost from the moment we broke up years ago. That failure is on me; I held my feelings in for too long until it all came pouring out at once. It wasn't healthy. 

The other situation ended with both of us deciding to take a step back, giving each other the space to find someone to build a permanent life with. For him, that transition will be easy. For me, living on the road, it won’t be. But it was my choice initially, and I had already begun taking those steps. Hopefully, we will never be truly out of each other’s lives, but the shape of our relationship fundamentally needed to change.

Despite the heavy emotional baggage, I have so much to look forward to on this leg of the trip. I just spent two great days at Cuyahoga Valley National Park. Now, I’m on my way to spend four days in Acadia National Park before heading up to Canada. My brother and his family are joining me in Maine for a few days, and I have a massive adventure planned for Michigan this July—you’ll have to stay tuned for those details.

Right now, I am entirely untethered. I have a calendar full of upcoming plans that require me to be in specific places at specific times—including a few return trips to Denver. Honestly, I have no idea where I’ll stay when I get there. But that’s okay. I’ve got time to figure it out.

Where will I go when I decide I’m finally done with the road? I have no idea. But I don’t have to know right now.

So, here I am. On the road again. Turn the page.