The Future (It's Here, Part 1).

The skyline of my new home, the Twin Cities (Plot twist!)

Here is something funny I’ve learned in the interim. Just wanting something and trying to will it into being isn’t enough -- especially when there are forces outside of your control. At last check, more than a year ago, I was optimistic about my path. You could feel the jubilation in my words, the hope and dreams that I bled onto the (digital) pages. (See this post for context).

Yeah-- none of that happened. While I was writing that last post, back in March 2024, I knew something was wrong with me -- and I don’t mean in a metaphysical way. I got sick, dear reader. Really, freaking sick. And the worst part about how sick I got was that it could have been so, so, SO much worse in any number of ways.

The medical staff in upstate New York worked quickly and within two weeks of my first appointment I had a (and I’ll be dramatic here) life changing diagnosis that means ongoing treatment for the rest of my life (which will still be long, I’m not dying just yet).

Now, I won’t dwell too much (don’t want to give any future employers protected information and all), but to say this diagnosis threw a curveball in my life-plans for myself would probably be the understatement of the decade.

Instead of moving to the shining, stinking New York City, I instead packed up all of my things last June and moved home. Not home as in Minneapolis-living-on-my-own home -- but back quite literally to my parents basement. 

My bestie, aka my parents dog

Somehow, despite the diagnosis and the sudden move, I secured a job that’s still a step up from the previous work I’d been doing. Still -- this was quite a blow to an up-and-coming 20-some year old who just wanted to see her dreams realized in the city that’s known for turning hopes and wishes into gritty reality.

I was deterred -- very deterred -- for a long time. By this I mean months. Part of it (sorry Mom and Dad) was the fact that by living at my parents home, I was spending 45 minutes a day commuting one direction to my shiny new job. Everyday, I spent an hour and a half in the car. I wish I could tell you I did something productive in that time, but I typically called someone and bemoaned the “fixed outcome” of my life.

I felt stuck, I felt defeated, and I clung to my family and the fact that this job was a step in the right direction. It’s been almost a year since the diagnosis that changed everything, and I think the most profound thing I have to say about it is that despite everything, you just keep going -- “so it goes” as Kurt Vonnegut wrote. 

So it freaking goes.

This glorious chicken I saw in the MIA (Minneapolis Institute of Art)

I spent months with only enough energy to drive myself to work in the mornings, work all day, and then drive myself home. I lived in this stasis for almost 6 months before I forced myself to branch out and try to meet new people.

Getting knocked down hurts. It hurts a lot. It took me a long time to be excited again. Before I got sick, any single one of my Real Life Friends can attest to the fact that I would have a new idea each week, for a blog post, or a podcast, or a Youtube channel, or something where I would get to share my ideas with the world. 

That part of my brain went quiet for a long time. I hoped it wasn’t gone forever, but it’s like reaching that final step a step too early. You just miss it. 

I also lost faith in the one thing I thought I could always count on, that I always assumed was on my side -- my body. Even now, I’m working together to rebuild that trust. You go 20-some years where everything works until suddenly it doesn’t and like that, the trust evaporates. Even at my lowest, I am fortunate enough to have some really true friendships that still nourished me, even when I felt like I couldn’t care for myself.

And here’s the thing, dear reader, all of those things I was worried about: my creativity, my passion, my zest for finding new outlets to share my ideas? They’re back! I’m emotional even writing it now, welcoming back a part of me I never thought I’d lose. But I’ve moved 10 minutes away from the office -- giving me literally hours more free-time than I had before, increasing my energy and my enthusiasm.

After almost a year of stress and self-induced anguish, nights of angsting and crying about factors outside of my control, I can finally say I’m thriving. I’m living independently, I recognize the step I’ve made career-wise is a step forward, and the treatment for my condition is working. 

Balance has been restored. I am now starting to finally, finally, enjoy this process and acknowledge the move back home as something that needed to happen. Instead of a step backward, I see it as a necessary step forward - the only step that would allow me to live as I am now: satisfied with each moment as it comes and as it goes.

Until next time.

P.S. I wrote this in April, it is now August. I will publish a more recent update soon, just wanted to get this one off my chest (and out of my drafts)