My house feels empty. Empty, and quiet. I have never been inclined to keep empty, quiet spaces; yet, here I am, shedding these last bits of my Missouri life by cleaning, packing, and donating.

It’s a little weird. Not bad-weird. Just weird. I’m finding things I thought I lost ages ago, and throwing away things I thought I would always keep.

(I have slight hoarder tendencies. I am also not a very tidy person. Untidy packrats like myself totally suck at moving.)

As I tape up boxes and silently curse myself for owning so much stuff, I find that I am less preoccupied with what I once thought were necessities for moving: finding the perfect job; being totally financially independent; and finding a city I could live in forever.

When people find out that I am moving to Atlanta, the conversation tends to go like this:

Person: Oooh, do you have a job?

Me: Um. Not yet.

Person: So why Atlanta?

Me: Well, my boyfriend lives there, so I’m moving in with him.

Person (suddenly wide-eyed and understanding): OOOOOOOOOOOOH. Well, at least you will have someone taking care of you!

Which, of course, was my plan all along: make some dude fall in love with me, tell him I will move in with him, and act like I am looking for a job while he pays for all of my stuff, because I got rid of all of my other stuff before I moved.

(I’m joking. In case that wasn’t obvious. Yes, a boy really wants to live with me and deal with my stupid sense of humor.)

While I do want to find a job I enjoy, it no longer feels like a requirement. Feeling independent doesn’t, either. And neither does feeling 100% in love with Atlanta, because I am in love with the person in Atlanta.

All of the things that I thought I needed are just that: things.

And things can be packed up in boxes, and they can be lost, and they can be found four years later and donated to Goodwill.

Things change, whether I want them to or not.

There are times when I feel like I am not enough: not smart enough, not successful enough, not pretty enough.

There are also times when I feel like I am too much: too weird, too anxious, too emotional, too annoying to deal with on any given day.

As you can imagine, this place of pressure and self-doubt is where so much of my anxiety has made its home. And this is how I make things more important than they really are. I will not miss that dress I haven’t worn in five years, and I will not miss a hypothetical life dominated by career and money.

Instead, I get to keep the things that matter, like spending time with my best friends and family during Christmas, and going on adventures in Atlanta with my boyfriend. I get to keep books and my childhood toys and feel the weight of must-haves and must-dos fall off my shoulders.

I don’t think I’ll need much else.


a post about nothing (the seinfeld post)

Things have been rather quiet around here, haven’t they?


I’ve been busy. 

I suppose I haven’t been that much busier than usual. My life has consisted of work, travel, and job applications–nothing out of the ordinary, but crazy enough to where I would open this blog, stare at the blank screen, and claim that I had NOTHING TO WRITE ABOUT.

I probably don’t have to tell you that is also false.

It is true, however, that I have a horrendous people-pleaser mentality that often prevents me from writing what I want to write. What kind of blog is this, anyway? A personal journal of all my adventures? A way to further a writing career? A political forum? A literary review site? Who knows? I’ve had ideas for posts that could fall into any and all of the above categories, and I have posted about 2% of those. Or something. I can’t do math, but just trust me on this one.

So, yes, I am writing this solely for the purpose of telling you I don’t know what to write about. One of my teachers once told me that if you write ‘I don’t know what to write,’ the words will eventually come. Usually, I spend a lot of time writing words and erasing them until I am happy with whatever I come up with.

Maybe I will give this ‘I don’t know what to write’ thing a try.

Or maybe I can just write what makes me happy. This blog isn’t even about you. It’s about me. Sorry if you thought otherwise, but I’m the one writing it.

So. Yeah. Take that, Internet.

Even writing that felt mean! And it’s a joke! And I wrote it to some random person on the Internet I probably don’t know! What is my problem?

In the midst of this crazy-busy phase I seem to be going through, life has been crazy-beautiful, too. That’s what I will write about: all the happy things.

Like watching Inside Out with my boyfriend. And crying hysterically.

Or holding my best friend’s newborn baby.

Or going on a ghost tour in Savannah, Georgia.

Or reading Choose Your Own Autobiography by Neil Patrick Harris and being physically incapable of holding in laughter during some chapters.

I never wrote an official Thanksgiving post, but I am very grateful for all these happy things. It turns out they cure writer’s block and help manage stress and anxiety.

Who knew?

Until next time, my friends. I promise to write from the heart.