season finale

the joy (and fear) of grabbing the reins.

My dear friend,

My goodness, I’ve missed your smile. 

Reviewing when I last wrote to you, I realize “misplaced in the timespace” (recently revised name) runs such a close (unintentional) reference to the show Lost, which tempts me to include a soundbite for the perfect catch-up…

Since the last time we spoke, I’ve:

• Grown a few more inches into my age

• Got laid off from a job I loved

• Chopped some logs

• Sewed a tablecloth

• Started digging into some heavy things with a new therapist (more to come on that)

• Got approved for an apartment I’ll move into and live alone in

• Accomplished a great deal of crying

• Road-tripped around 1,230 miles with my partner

• Revisited my favorite mountains

• Accepted a new job

It’s felt like a speed run and barely sticking the landing to a nail-biting fall, all wrapped up in one. (But still, stuck it!)

On my big Adirondack/Canada trip, in a hotel in Lake George, squeezing in a swim just an hour before the pool closed, my partner and I waded from one end of the pool to the next in thought. “Having a trip like this right before you start a new job and move towns makes it feel like a season finale.” He noted, “Loose ends are getting tied up. A new plot begins. You’re taking a break before turning the page.”

This wrap-up included a pinch more contradictory grief and French-Canadian radio than I would have pictured, but he’s right. Without applying any “main character” ideals, this does feel like the start of a new season. 

Last year was a leap into something new all its own. I had never visited Michigan before moving here, nor had any idea it’d play a part in my life, but after my best friend and I figured it made sense as our next move from Portland, we’ve both been happy with our decision. The year was a fair amount of adjusting, learning, and exploring. Surprised (and deeply moved) by a near-constant stream of Midwestern kindness. Discovering new wants. Gladly welcoming thunderstorms back into my life. Failing miserably to follow a game of euchre. 

It also was a continuation of things I’ve held to and loved—my copywriting job, my long-distance relationship joyously shortened from a cross-country flight; living with my best friend and enjoying life (not to mention a new state), side by side. Together and individually, we’ve found comfortable resting spots and like-minded new friends. To clarify, we are not parting ways in living spaces over any scorned feelings, simply knowing it’s time for a change. 

A new apartment, new job, new me mindset. The setting is coming into view. A cast has been set, but in those first few episodes, it’s unclear what role new characters will play. I’m preparing for the unexpected the only way I know how: a playlist with the perfect balance of “things-will-be-okay confidence” and “frantic uncertainty,” featuring no less than three placements of “What’s Up?” by 4 Non Blondes.

It feels cliche to write about taking inventory as I get ready to move—like resolutions around New Years or straining to think of something better to write than H.A.G.S. in a yearbook—but I think this string of Big Decisions is catching up with me. The smell of cardboard boxes. The deliberation in what I want to bring with me or what I can upgrade, replace, give away, or maybe have grown out of. Lately, I’ve been sitting back and putting a little more thought into my next move—not just by means of address, but taking inventory of what’s next for me here. Stepping out of the idea that I’ll let life happen to me and remembering I’ve got a say in it. Maybe this new season is just unfolding, but what plans can I write into the margins?

I’ve moved five times in the past four years. All my yearning for home, a stronger sense of community, and a regular status at a coffee shop or trusty nightly watering hole, have barely had a moment to take root by the time I’ve changed zip codes again. Though I won’t share all the promises I’m hoping to keep with myself in this next chapter, I can easily tell you I do want to slow things down, big time. I’ve got some growing up to do.

After a phase of veering from where I thought I might be (or maybe more appropriately phrased: feeling off-script), I’m watching things start to come together again. Things are changing, but I am brave enough to do this. I know that I must have this life-changing realization every other letter to you, my most patient friend, but I know why it feels new all the time. Independence is still somewhat of a recent experience for me, and I want to do it right.

In a much longer session (and a topic I know I’ll write about soon), I talked to my therapist about my fear of being susceptible to bad decisions because I haven’t had a lot of practice making many big ones throughout my life. (That strong cocktail of Mormonism, BYUI, married young, etc., etc. will do that to you. As a woman in that community, decision-making, particularly for big things like a move or a new job, was something a father, a husband, or a church leader either did for you or would give advice to “lean” on.)

While I’m coming to terms with the fact that I’m still strengthening those decision-making muscles, a lot of panic comes up. I tell my therapist it scares me that I often don’t know where to start, or how many times I feel I have to review ideas to detect any influence, or how I’m afraid of falling into things I don’t want (though, perhaps many of those past experiences weren’t something I chose in the first place), but she understood where my fear was coming from.

“It seems to me that once you grasped your situation, that you didn’t want these things, you fought hard against it. You know what that looks like now. You keep an eye out for it. But since then, it looks like you’ve spent a lot of time figuring out what you do want. That’s bravery: Step One. Step Two is putting it into action. You’ve already done that twice in the last month.”

It’s becoming harder to believe I’ll wake up one morning and find myself in a life I’m unhappy with. I watch what comes my way and assess. I listen to my body. I say yes, thank you, or no, not for me. I can trust myself to make decisions. My decisions can be as responsible as a new career or as unserious as bouncing off to the woods to blow off steam. Planning long trips with loved ones or accepting I’ve outgrown a hand-me-down bookshelf. When I need advice, I look to my small trustworthy circle. If and when I make a mistake, swimming in the wrong direction and spotting the shore a few laps behind me, I’ll remember it’s only a matter of turning around. That is one element I’m happy to have felt more practiced in: returning to myself, though I don’t make a habit of wandering far anymore.

I can trust myself to make decisions. Maybe there is no getting it right, exactly, but learning. If and when I’m faced with another burgeoning chapter, I’ll begin it slowly if I can. Asking myself, simply: What do I want out of life next? 

Thanks for listening.

with love,
schuyler (sky-ler)
tip jar (venmo): schuylerpeck

If you’re interested in supporting my writing or reading more:
book link 1: The Ghosts’ Share of Rent (newest book!!)
book link 2: You Look Like Hell
book link 3: To Hold Your Moss-Covered Heart
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