The hotel was reserved, the flight was booked. Pippa was even going to join me! I could feel the warmth of the sun on my skin as I watched it glow into a deeper shade of brown. I could feel the coarse grains of salt on my lips and taste their salty goodness with every sour sip of margarita. With every inhale of the tropical sea air, I could imagine the sense of peace that would invade my body … with every exhale, physically feel the stress releasing, the tightness in my chest lessening, the calmness washing over me. I could visualize my geriatric dog living her best life in the desert heat, replacing her usual gaze of disappointment at me with one of love and contentment, as she believed we would never have to return to the cold urban world we had called home.

But yeah, that isn’t happening.

Life got a bit, well … lifey … and I decided it would be best to cancel the trip. (note: cancellation completely unrelated to the TSA and corresponding travel fiascos, but for the record, fuck Trump).

So while the vacation was off, I decided to keep the time off from work on the schedule. I was exhausted, burnt out, overwhelmed, and depleted. I knew that I couldn’t wait for the “right time” to do a reset on a tropical beach somewhere. I needed the time off, and I was going to take it.

And in the most on-brand thing about me, I’ve spent most of the week feeling like I failed at this break.

Even on my first day off, I had a panicked vision of myself on the Sunday before returning to work, not only filled with the typical Sunday scaries but also a mess of disappointment for wasting the time I was afforded to relax and do nothing. I was kicking myself for being overscheduled (doctors’ appointments! theater tickets! a spa day!) while at the same time, annoyed I wasn’t being more thoughtful about a NYC staycation (really? no time for museums? the botanical garden? exploring different neighborhoods? time in the park in still freezing weather?). Or worse, that I wasn’t being more productive with my time (I didn’t read five books? write five Substack posts? eat at 10 new restaurants? go to a dozen networking events? work out every day?).

I’m not sure why I should care if, during my time off, I sleep in until 11 a.m. and sit around on the couch all day. If I wanted to take an entire week to watch the entire run of Friends, that would be just fine, right? It’s time off, not time on.

The truth is, it’s not hard to trace some of the home-based time off doom back to recent periods when I was unemployed. Sure, I didn’t have a job to show up for each day. But I did have a very very very real job, the work more important and urgent than anything I had ever done up to that point in my life: finding a new job. Networking like crazy. Applying to anything remotely related to my skill set. Getting out there and hustling and never resting until that next paycheck is secured.

I’m guessing that a lot of the sense of doing the wrong thing while staying at home and not working this week ties back to these times, even though I am currently employed and even getting paid for taking the time off (what a concept!). Like other traumas in my life, I imagine this sense of dread lessens over time. Outside of the holidays (which are a blur of carbs and alcohol and naps and Elf), this is the first time I’ve had more than a three-day weekend at home since moving back to New York City.

It took me until Thursday to finally tell myself to get over it. Maybe it was buying a great new pair of sunglasses that cost way too much money when I took myself out shopping. Maybe it was the glass of wine I treated myself to over lunch. Maybe I was just fed up with my shit, my ridiculous expectations that would never be met, and with being stressed out during the rare time off I was supposed to use to become less stressed out.

My break from work may be nearing the end, but I am finally embracing the ability to do nothing — and to feel no guilt over it. I’m so over the whole hustle culture and being bombarded with messages that I need to be working on top of working on top of working to achieve my best life. You know what, fuck that. Today, my best life is not setting an alarm to get up in the morning. Not showering and having no idea how many days it has been since I washed my hair. Still sipping my morning cup of tea at 5 p.m., preparing to replace it with a glass of wine, water be damned.

Don’t worry, I promise a tropical getaway will be a part of my very near future. With a little luck, Pippa will be there, too.

While Grammarly was used to improve the writing of this post, AI was not used for content creation.

Man, just typing that is exhausting.

Once again, I am packing up my life and moving across the country. While D.C. to NYC isn’t quite the same “cross-country” vibe as when I moved from D.C. to Seattle, or Seattle to Austin, or Austin to NYC, it still feels like a massive undertaking and life upheaval.

Although I never wanted to leave NYC and can’t wait to be back, the process of making it happen is overwhelming. I’m two months into my new job now, and have been traveling back and forth from D.C. to NYC each week, never on the same weekly schedule. This not only causes a lot of life disruptions, but also prevents me from settling into new patterns and schedules because everything is in constant upheaval. Everything became so insane that I sent my beloved old dog, Pippa, on a vacation to stay with my parents, since I felt bad about sending her to a dog sitter each week (not to mention, I felt poor having to pay for a dog sitter each week). Don’t worry, the cat is fine. And the dog is being spoiled and is living her best life.

The dog sitting is the only thing I’m saving money on these days. I’m physically ill thinking about how much money I’ve spent in the past few weeks — between all the job travel, the first and last month’s payment for my new apartment, the fee to break my D.C. lease, the moving expenses that are beyond ridiculous. Plus, I have to sell my car, but I am maintaining blissful ignorance over what I may have to contribute to make up the difference between the selling price and what I still owe on it.

By the way, does anyone want to buy a Lexus?

Through all the temporary upheaval, the hardest thing for me is to avoid falling into the panic cycle. Just because previous moves I’ve completed as an adult have been traumatic, that doesn’t mean that things have to go wrong in this transition.

Remember, I decided that life begins at 50. So let’s do some accounting.

The job is going well, and I feel I’m settling in and making an impact in my role. And, unlike the horrors of my last two jobs, it’s not a toxic cesspool overrun with small dick energy, so we are actually able to get things done. What a concept!

Finding an apartment actually happened pretty easily, in a radical departure from a typical NYC apartment search. In spite of all the media coverage relating to recent broker scams, I actually found the unit through a management company, not a broker (oh right, I saved a potential fee of at least one month of rent here too!). My lease is signed, utilities are transferring, loading docks are reserved. A dear friend who lives in the D.C. area near me recently moved into a new house and generously gifted me all of her moving boxes, which are rapidly being filled with all of my worldly possessions.

While I still have a ridiculous amount of work to do to prepare for the move, and inevitably a million things may go wrong or, at a minimum, sideways during a move, it feels like things are falling into place.

This is a feeling I’m not familiar with.

Obviously, it’s too soon to tell, and I don’t want to jinx anything. But it’s such a change in perspective, I have to keep reminding myself to change my inner monologue and confidently state that I DESERVE FOR THINGS TO GO MY WAY.

Yes, I have been to hell and back. But somehow I overcome every obstacle — maybe not triumphantly, but at least I keep putting one foot in front of the other. I should have a lifetime supply of good karma points ready to cash in.

I understand that many things about the rest of this month will be emotional, difficult, traumatic, and beyond my control. But in a few short weeks, I’ll be ready to begin the rest of my life — and I will have my dog back.

So jump up, jump up, and get down. We’re doing this.

While Grammarly was used to improve the writing of this post, no forms of AI were used for content creation.

I turned 50.

The younger version of me never could have imagined that my life would still be such a shit show so in flux at this point in middle age. Aren’t most 50-year-olds supposed to know what they’re doing in life and have their shit figured out? Because I most certainly do not.

When I look back at the decades that are behind me, my 20s (of course) were for being an idiot and making sure I wouldn’t hit my 30s without having embraced every kind of adventure. (Mission accomplished!). My 30s found me unhappily married and later divorced, dealing with the grief of my brother’s suicide, and making significant professional and personal changes to put me on a path to become who I thought I was meant to be.

So then what about my newly concluded 40s? Looking back, I think every step I took was geared toward me pursuing my dream life, whether I consciously made that decision or not. Had I defined for myself what my dream life would look like? No, outside of the very clear realization that my idea of “dream” is probably different than the traditional clichés, because trust me, no version of mine would involve a husband or children! Rather, I was seeking a path that would allow me to embrace my independence, relocate away from the city (D.C.) where I had become bored and complacent, and surround myself with communities that would help to build me up.

Well, that dream was a bust.

Back in 2019, I packed up my D.C. life and moved to Seattle, ready for new adventures and opportunities. I was still running my own consultancy, still swinging from the trapeze, confident about leaving the place where I had called home for 20 years. But little did I know that the big life adventure I would experience would be a global pandemic that shut down the world.

Desperate for community, two years later, I accepted a job with one of my clients, shut down my business, and relocated to the worst place on earth, Texas. Absolute hell (yes, even Austin). I was elated when my company decided to open an office in Manhattan, and 365 days after I arrived, I was once again on the move, this time to New York City.

I couldn’t have been happier! I always assumed I would end up in New York one day. I’m an urban girl; the suburbs are my idea of a nightmare. What better place to be than the Big Apple? It was as though the challenges and struggles since leaving D.C. were paying off. Dream life — finally!! — here I come!

But the nightmare began the moment I arrived.

A shithole apartment that was left in absolute filth, a key that didn’t work to unlock the door, no functioning hot water, and a landlord who decided to gaslight me and say that was just a New York City thing and no apartments ever had functioning hot water. A building-wide bedbug infestation I would soon discover the hard way, in the form of bites all over my body. The universe was sending me signs the moment I arrived, starting with that damn key, but I was in too deep (and too afraid and overwhelmed) to listen and to pivot.

I was unemployed and homeless eight months later.

Through the kindness of friends that I may never comprehend, I found myself back in D.C., and broadened my job search to include the region I had deliberately and intentionally left four years earlier. Sure enough, I found a job in the Virginia suburbs. You know how I feel about suburbs, but the job checked a lot of boxes in terms of what I was seeking for professional growth. Unfortunately, this job ended up being so terrible that I didn’t just hate the job … the job actually made me hate myself.

Any dream about a “dream life” — even a professional one — was killed. I became a shell of myself, basically always in survival mode, forcing myself to show up and pretend to be someone I was not in the worst possible way.

While I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions, I knew I needed to make changes when the calendar turned to 2025. And long story longer … I now have a new job and will be relocating back to New York City before the end of the year. I also lost all of my pandemic weight and then some, so for the first time in I can’t even remember how long, I physically feel like myself again, as I prepare to mentally and emotionally take on what’s next.

So that was a very long way to get to the question that remains. Now, I am 50. Is it a little absurd to still be chasing a dream life when more of my life is behind me than in front of me? Should I just accept whatever realities are handed to me (or come to me from the consequences of my decisions) and stop seeking something more? Do I have the right to continue to pursue a broader happiness as I enter my sixth decade of life?

Damn right I do.

Let’s be clear, I’m not looking for a Sex and the City life — I’m too old for that, but too young (and poor) for an And Just Like That life. I have no interest in cosplaying like I’m a ‘90s college sorority girl again, trying to be a West Village girl (as much as I love the neighborhood). I lived through the baggy mom jeans once in my life, I’m not revisiting that again.

So now the challenge is in front of me. This single, childfree woman needs to build a community and a life in a new city, where she can not only survive, but actually thrive. I hope I have it in me to not to be jaded and cynical, but rather aspirational and inspired, willing to step outside of my comfort zone and take some risks. Of course, everything may just fall apart now that I’m 50 (I may have broken my hip just typing that).

I am embracing the fact that dreams don’t have deadlines1. I’m ready to life my best life (and cash in on karma points I’ve certainly earned) in my 50s and beyond.

While Grammarly was used to improve the writing of this post, no other forms of AI were used for content creation.

I know, I know. But there is something about writing Life After Normal that keeps drawing me back. It’s not that I have something new to say — trust me, I’ve never run out of things to say — but rather, I’m craving opportunities to live authentically. Put myself out there a bit. Escape from the burdens of conformity that accompany my suffocating professional existence.

Writing is a muscle, and mine is weak and atrophied. Setting up something new, I hope, will be like a shiny new toy I want to play with all of the time! Or, more accurately, like a new game. Something that will challenge me, force me to collect experience points, inspire me to put in a bit of time every day in order to get stronger and move up that leader board.

Having the option to revisit something that was very meaningful to me and create new communities and connections is part of why I never fully shut down the old WordPress site (where Life After Normal was previously hosted). But WordPress is wonky, I went all-in on customization when I started the blog, and when you go 10 years without updating, things break and it’s messy. I don’t want to have to bother with design, and want to find ways to connect with new audiences. Hence, my move to Substack.

You’ll see that I migrated many of my old posts over to this new platform. After I was too far into the tedious process to back down (seriously, Substack, do better!), I realized that I should have just started fresh, be a new random voice (admittedly, on a crowded platform where chances of getting noticed are pretty slim, but again, I do this for me). But, for whatever reason, when I started the migration, I felt very strongly that my earlier blogs needed to be moved here. I needed the archive, I needed the history. I mean, I went on a JOURNEY! One that people may want to experience … or relive!

(people won’t, I get it, but work with me here)

The migration was an incredibly time-consuming process, and while some of the more recent posts were just copied and pasted without any review, as I got towards the earlier ones, I peeked at some of the writing. And … ugh, it is embarrassing.

I thought I would find deep and meaningful reflections of my journey following the deaths of my brother and my marriage. But it really was more just random ramblings. Reflections of a mundane existence. Generic thoughts and observations.

After getting over the mortification of the musings of my previous self, I realized that my approach to writing back then made sense. I was navigating tremendous pain and uncertainty, chaos and upheaval. Sharing reflections about a regular, boring life provided a sense of normalcy that I was clearly craving. It was all about one foot in front of the other … I could still cook a meal. Visit with friends. Take on new hobbies. Build a business. I wasn’t craving an ah-ha! moment that would help everything make sense. I was looking for a normal life, after abnormal things occurred.

So I completed copying over those ancient posts, although I chose not to migrate the entries where I dabbled in being a vegan blogger, and removed the photo challenges as well. Any comments from readers are now lost to time, I’m sure they were all brilliant. If there are links within the posts, they are probably broken, and I’m just not compelled to review and fix every link or every photo caption. If you do happen to stumble back in time and read something from a previous decade, yeah, it’s going to be a mess. Just like life is.

So what’s next? Well, as I have evolved, so has the phrase “Life After Normal”. It’s never not relevant, due to bad life choices, the collapse of American democracy, or whatever other circumstances. And now, I’m on the cusp of 50 … I don’t even know how the fuck to process that nonsense. Sure, I was born in 1975, but I’m only 36, just like the rest of the people who graduated from high school in 1993. I’m now living a life after the normalcy of adulthood, not only over the hill of age but rapidly tumbling down it.

I can’t tell you if the new and improved Substack version of Life After Normal is going to be about adventures in perimenopause, figuring out the disaster of my professional life, figuring out the disaster of my personal life, the shame of being an American right now, moving somewhere new yet again (please, let it be outside of the U.S.!!!), or what. But life still moves forward, as do I. So onward.

While Grammarly was used to improve the writing of this post, no other forms of AI were used for content creation.

It’s impossible to succinctly capture the past 3+ years since I decided to leave Washington, D.C., my home of 20 years, and start the adventure towards the rest of my life. The understatement of the year is that things aren’t exactly going according to plan.

To quickly recap: I moved from Washington, D.C. to Seattle in 2019, with the global pandemic not too far behind … two years later, I left my decade-long consulting business behind to take a full time job that insisted I relocate to Austin, Texas … I have basically zero recollection (definitely a trauma response) of my 365 days in Austin as it’s the worst place ever (I’m legally not permitted to comment on the job but I’ll let you use your imagination on how that was) … convinced said job to let me relocate to New York City where I now reside in a truly abhorrent apartment (I have not, for one single day, had functioning hot water), and concluded 2022 by having my job eliminated as part of company-wide layoffs.

It has all been pretty brutal, especially given the fact that I have not had a local community since I left D.C. I knew a few people in Seattle but they didn’t know each other and, well, people have their own lives. I knew one person in Austin. I have no friends here in Manhattan (yet); in the six months that I’ve lived here I’ve only connected with people who happen to be visiting the city for one reason or another (and am beyond grateful for each and every visit).

I am exhausted, as this journey has truly been a solitary and lonely one. I’ve been operating in survival mode since I drove away from my D.C. life.

So when today I was asked the question, How are you brave?, well I can only respond with, I’m still here. I am still fucking here. And navigating this journey over the past 3.5 years, continuing to put one foot in front of the other, has been pretty fucking brave.

I have zero regrets about leaving D.C. – it was time. I’ve made big, bold choices that have taken me all over the country, allowed me to meet new people from all over the world, and taken me out of my comfort zone basically every day. I do love NYC and know this is where I belong (not in this ghetto-ass apartment, but in this city), now it is up to me to make it happen.

So as we enter 2023, I recognize that I need to continue to embrace that bravery, as challenging and debilitating and overwhelming as that may be, to move onwards. I really can’t think of a time in my life where I’ve thrived, but you know, I have always survived.

May 2023 be no different.

Well, you all know how that story ended, as a few weeks later my dog and I hit the road, heading west towards our new life. Of course I had no idea that when I signed my new Seattle apartment lease I was not only committing to a new home and a new office, but also to what would become my “shelter in place” (or my prison, depending on the day). Basically, yet another “Life After Normal” thanks to COVID-19, only this is a life change that everyone can actually relate to.

I’m not going to lie, It’s been a lonely two months. As a single person living alone, the social isolation takes a toll. I am incredibly grateful to have pets — if it wasn’t for them, I would have no one to physically interact with, no warm bodies to hug, no reason to go outside. I have no doubt my mental health would be in a far worse place if it weren’t for my animals. (side note: if you have single friends who live alone, check in on them. It’s really, really hard.)

It’s weird to be isolated in a strange city — because let’s be clear, Seattle is not yet home. I don’t know the city, I haven’t made friends, I haven’t found new communities, I couldn’t tell you one neighborhood from another, any fun restaurants or bars, places people visiting the city should check out. Don’t get me wrong, I have zero regrets about leaving D.C. That change was LONG overdue. But I am still a visitor in Seattle.

I think that is the hardest thing about this pandemic and being in a city where I know no one — will I ever have the opportunity to find my place here? Sometimes I wonder if this new reality is my new normal. Places remaining closed, people remaining apart, me at home alone. Even as quarantine begins to shift to quaran-team, I don’t have any groups of friends to reconnect with, or local so-called “teams” of friends to join. The slow loosening of shelter-in-place mandates will have zero impact on my life or day-to-day interactions.

Of course, there is nothing I can do right now to become a true citizen of Seattle other than staying home and doing my part to flatten the curve so life can return to what will surely be a new normal. Driving around and sightseeing through my car window doesn’t hold a ton of excitement for me; neither does online dating in an era of FaceTime dates (just, no.). I splurged on a Peloton, so even exercise keeps me indoors.

I know regardless of where I was located, it would be a lonely and challenging time for a million reasons. But after a bumpy transition to Seattle and a crazy work schedule that kept me on the road (which I can hardly complain about – work is good, I am lucky), I had been counting down the days to when I could shake off the winter darkness and really embrace my new city. To have that put on hold indefinitely is a devastating reality (one that I’ve chosen to eat and drink my way through) — and I can’t help feeling like I’ll be isolated and alone forever.

It’s so strange to look at the photos from my wedding day, as I do not recognize the person in them. At all. Maybe it’s the youth, maybe it’s the blissful ignorance of just how hard life was about to get, maybe it’s the skinny pre-circus arms and lats, maybe it’s because I hadn’t yet reached my full potential of giving zero fucks. But the person in those photos is a complete stranger to me.

While learning of my long-forgotten wedding anniversary brings surprised laughs as opposed to emotional feelings, anniversaries have been on my mind lately. We are approaching 10 years since my brother killed himself.

A decade. A weird, round milestone number. The day when my life took a dramatic detour from its path of “normalcy”, full speed towards the nonsense that is my current existence.

How did I get here?

At a friend’s wedding a few years ago, fueled by one or a dozen drinks, my college friends and I were joking about what the title of my memoirs would be, should I ever write them. What we came up with was something along the lines of, “My Brother Died, I Quit My Job, Left My Husband, Joined the Circus … and I Could Kill You With My Bare Hands.”

And you know, that’s a pretty solid summary of my journey since 2009.

But the thing is, it doesn’t do me a whole lot of good to look behind me. For better and for worse, here is where I am. Any expectations of who I was or who I was going to be are long dead and buried, as are countless friendships and relationships that no longer serve me or my journey forward.

The much more interesting question is, where will the next 10 years take me? Where will I be when it’s time for the 15th or 20th or 40th anniversary of my brother’s suicide?

I’m pretty much over being tired or stressed out or sad about things in the past. I’m plenty tired and stressed out and sad thinking about the future (thanks, Trump). But in all seriousness, moving to Seattle was a pretty strong way of saying “TIME FOR CHANGE”.

In nine months, I’ll have a new anniversary. Settle down, I’m not pregnant. Rather, I’ll be celebrating one year in Seattle. I readily admit my life changes are off to a slow start, as I’ve settled into a rhythm that’s not really all that different from the life I left behind in D.C. But I’m good with slow and steady, figuring things out as I go.

So I will continue to learn from the past, but I refuse to dwell on it. I fully believe that the best is yet to come, and look forward to ignoring anniversaries of past sadnesses, and embracing celebrations of what’s ahead.

Today I can say I am moved in. I am (mostly) settled. I live in Seattle.

It’s strange to call a city I’m still so unfamiliar with “home”, but I’m starting to find my way around. I love my neighborhood of West Seattle, and I am (mostly) at the point where I can find my way around here without using Waze. The rest of Seattle is still a bit scary and unfamiliar, but slowly I’m dipping my toe into other neighborhoods as I explore all the city has to offer.

I’m starting to find a routine. My work life is firmly on track, with my office set up and new time zones established. While I am generally getting up earlier for calls and meetings that tend to start at 8 a.m. Pacific Time or earlier, I do enjoy the fact that everyone not on the west coast seems to shut down around 2 p.m. my time. The afternoon peace and quiet has helped boost my afternoon productivity, a welcome and unexpected plus of heading west.

While my circus teaching and training hasn’t quite hit its groove yet, I’m getting more comfortable with the new set up and new styles. I’m trying to establish a regular training routine (not easy for a variety of reasons), and feel like the cobwebs are basically gone. Now it’s time to take on new goals and regain all the strength I lost in this transition.

Seattle really is a beautiful city. From the water and mountains that surround it, to the easy accessibility to hiking, to its unique layout and styles of urban architecture, I’m excited to explore more and more in the months ahead. I’m more than ready to see and try new things and to meet new people.

I’m also ready for a spa day retreat, but one thing at a time, I guess.

While I can technically say that I now live in Seattle, the reality is that I am still in that in-between place. I’m not homeless, but I don’t have a home. The move is still in process (saying “in progress” seems a bit too optimistic) — and at this point I feel like it is a process that will never end.

It’s been nearly a month since my boxed-up apartment in D.C. was loaded into a truck and driven away … somewhere. When is it scheduled to arrive? … Someday. That’s right, I still do not have my belongings, and no specific date has been given as to when I can expect to see them. I’m living in an empty apartment with an air mattress and some new furniture that, rather than making the place look warm and welcoming and excited about the promise of the home it may become, makes the apartment look sad and lonely, mirroring my own feelings at this point of my journey.

After weeks without a real home, without my belongings, without any rhythm of a normal life, I am truly beginning to lose my mind. The physical, mental, and emotional exhaustion is pretty soul crushing.

I keep reminding myself that this is only a temporary in-between phase — like a purgatory holding space and place before I move forward to embrace my exciting new life here in Seattle. I knew June was going to be a shit show and braced myself for the challenge. I just didn’t expect the uncertainty to run into mid-July.

The Journey Begins …

So, let me fill you in on how I got here. I officially pulled away from D.C. with a car packed full and a dog ready for adventure sleep. I left the cats behind with friends, certain that a solo cross-country drive with three animals would be more than I could realistically manage.

The drive ultimately covered 15 states (#dcstatehood) and nearly 3,500 miles. Pippa and I first went to South Carolina to spend a few days with my grandmother, before beginning the four, 12+-hour-days trek west towards Seattle. We stopped in Indianapolis, Fargo and Bozeman along the way — drives that were long, but surprisingly manageable, if you interpret “manageable” to mean that I face planted on the bed seconds of arriving in the hotel room and was deeply asleep for the night within minutes.

Throughout the drive I kept thinking “one more day”. Meaning, I could manage one more day because it would put me that much closer, or I would actually be in Seattle, or I would be moving into my apartment (where my stuff was certain to be arriving at any time!)! Yay! One more day — no problem! But the mantra that guided me throughout my drive, “you can do one more day!“, is slowly shifting to, “I. cannot. make. it. one. more. fucking. day“.

… Then Takes Me Back to D.C.

Pippa (the best most wonderful dog ever) and I arrived safely in Seattle, and we moved my two suitcases and my air mattress into my new apartment. Knowing at this point my belongings had not even departed from the east coast (and let’s all pause to commend me for not throat punching anyone / everyone as a result of this news), I was presented with a window to head back to D.C. to pick up the cats.

I cannot begin to describe the guilt I felt leaving the cats behind. I only cried once throughout this move — and it was when I had to say goodbye to Pixie and Dash, putting them into an overwhelming situation that I was really not sure how well they would manage. While Dash seemed like his same old self when we were reunited, Pixie did not fare as well. She had lost weight and had an infected / impacted anal gland (just google it).

In other words, Pixie confirmed that I am a terrible person for abandoning her. She also completely ignored me for days to really drive home that point.

The cats certainly had their revenge on the flight home. They screamed the entire flight. Six hours. The loudest possible meow they could muster, every two seconds. EVERY. TWO. SECONDS. After not getting any sleep on the red eye and departing for the airport at 4:00 a.m., you can imagine how I felt when we touched down in Seattle.

The Animals’ Revenge

I immediately called the vet upon our arrival in Seattle, wanting to be sure Pixie was all right. Luckily, her vitals were all good and the vet wasn’t concerned — her anal gland wounds were cleaned out, medication was provided, and we were sent on our way. Sure enough, she quickly began to perk up and look and act more like her old self. The side eye looks stopped, and I am finally getting purrs out of her again — her way of letting me know that I was sufficiently punished for the abandonment.

But then, it was Pippa’s turn.

When I travelled back to D.C., Pippa stayed with a dog sitter I really liked, and she seemed to have a great time when I was away. Unfortunately, at some point either during her stay or afterwards, she ate something or was exposed to something that caused a full on vomit / diarrhea explosion.

Not once. Not even twice. But FOR 12 HOURS.

I cannot begin to tell you how much watery dog diarrhea I cleaned up throughout the weekend. I clogged the toilet multiple times due to all the soiled paper towels I flushed down. Just hours after returning from the vet with Pixie, I was back at the vet with Pippa for meds, hydration and special food.

Who needs that extra $400 anyway??

If you think I was lucky that this episode happened before all of my belongings arrived, think again. Pippa managed to explode on my brand new rug — a rug that had been delivered the day before and was still in the process of unrolling to its flattened state. For the record — there is nothing like trying to clean out a wet and spreading dog diarrhea stain when you have no cleaning supplies or anything other than paper towels and water to sop up the mess. (hooray for there being a Petco within walking distance from my new apartment!).

And Now … We Wait.

So that is where I am with the move, aided by wine and the local dispensary. The most accurate timeline the movers provided for delivery of my stuff is “July” — so this could legitimately go on for another week or two.

So how am I? I am tired. I am tired of an air mattress that is soft when I wake up and needs to be re-inflated every night (or every nap). I am tired of takeout food and plastic utensils and bottled water. I am tired of no furniture and wearing the same clothes every day. I am tired of a lack of routine. I am tired of feeling lonely due to my lack of interaction with people. I am tired of not knowing if my life will ever be normal again. I am tired of feeling like this may in fact be my new normal. I am tired.

Cross country moving is hard.

While I feel that over the years I’ve done a pretty good job of scaling back and letting go of the clutter, of course there are things that I held on to. But with cross-country moving expenses being covered by me (spoiler alert: not cheap!), everything I own now comes with an attached dollar sign. Therefore I’m taking the hard look at everything and deciding whether or not I need to keep it, and therefore pay to move it.

Some things are easy to part with — old clothes, tons of books, unused kitchen appliances. Do I use it? Can I survive without it? Does it spark joy? Purging can be freeing, and I’ve tossed many things without a second thought.

However, with that part of the packing behind me, I am now faced with the bins of, well, stuff. Old stuff. The sentimental stuff. Memories, mementos, moments, all carried around in a box.

In other words, the emotional “oooooof”.

Should I feel obligated to hang on to “precious mementos” from my childhood that would maybe mean something to my parents (who passed them off to me after a move of their own), but truly mean nothing to me? A collection of Seven Dwarf carvings hung on my bedroom wall as an infant — or so I’ve been told, since I have zero recollection of my childhood nursery. But somehow these carvings are a part of my belongings now. To keep them seems pointless, but to part with them seems somehow inappropriate, even if there will never be a child of my own to pass them along to.

Then the random items. I still have a Cabbage Patch Doll. Do I care about this doll? Not at all. But should I hang on to something that represents such a cultural moment, that even 35ish years later it seems like something I should keep?

I also still have my wedding dress. What am I supposed to do with that?? I looked into selling it, and after 12 years it’s not worth much. I always joke that I want to wear it to a costume party (or even have a “wear your old wedding / bridesmaid dresses” party) — but such parties have not occurred. I can’t just throw it away. Or can I? Ugh.

I don’t want to throw something away simply to save money. But I do want to be sure that what moves west with me are things that I care about and that are meaningful to me. It doesn’t matter if I don’t look at these things or interact with them on a regular basis, but there needs to be some kind of emotional connection.

Preparing to move and packing up to this point has been surprisingly unemotional, but I think I’ve hit the hard part – the part that actually has nothing to do with moving.

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Welcome to My Mid-Life Crisis

Posted on May 29, 2019 by Laura — 1 Comment ↓

No, I didn’t buy a ridiculous sports car, and let’s just say *no comment* on the 20-something boy toys … but, perhaps I’m having a mid-life crisis. Why? Because I made the decision to pick up my life and move across the country.

Seattle, here I come!!!

Yes, after years of contemplation, I am finally going to do it. I am throwing caution to the wind, and I am heading west.

It wasn’t an easy decision, but it wasn’t exactly a difficult one. Every time I think of staying in D.C., I feel like my best years are behind me. When I think about moving to Seattle, I feel like my best years are ahead of me.

That doesn’t mean the decision to move wasn’t filled with challenges. Financially, it is not cheap to relocate 3,000 miles. I’m so grateful that my business will keep on going — my clients are already remote, and I’ll keep doing what I’m doing in my marketing and communications life. I have the opportunity to continue teaching flying trapeze, and will be training even harder with my new circus community.

It’s strange, but as I begin to pack and determine what I’m tossing and what I’m taking, In some ways I see this move as shedding the final shrouds of grief that remain from my brother’s suicide and my divorce. Obviously I’m still mourning my brother’s death, but starting over somewhere new will be a refreshing (albeit scary) change. I’m also realizing that any remaining shared marital items, while not things that I ever considered to have emotional baggage, aren’t making the trip west with me. This truly is a journey for me to find my freedom — from physical and emotional attachments that tie me to my most painful past.

The next few weeks are going to be insane — and I’m not wasting any time. I have zero interest in prolonged good-byes. I’ve got things to do, places to be and a life to live. You had 17 years with me, D.C. I outgrew you long ago. Time to spread my wings and fly.

So I refuse to see this as a crisis. It’s an opportunity — time to really be the best me I can be and to live my best life.

The best is yet to come. Watch out, Seattle.

Unfortunately, that is all I know right now. I don’t know when I’m moving, or where I’m moving to. If I’m staying in D.C., or picking up and heading across the country to start a new life in Seattle.

It’s hard to be in the in-between, yet here I am. Knowing things are going to change but not knowing how or how drastically — and trying to prepare for any situation.

Wait, what? Seattle?

So let me take a step back. First, how do I know that I’m moving? Well, I recently found out that my apartment is going to be demolished and I need to move out this summer. In other words, BOOM.

I’m a big believer in signs from the universe, and let’s be clear — I’ve been very aware for a long time that I am in desperate need of a change. A long time, as in YEARS. But knowing that, and actually making change happen, are two very different (and often conflicting) things.

Earlier this year, my apartment lease was up for renewal and the thought of committing another year or more in D.C. threw me into a bit of a panic attack. I felt trapped, like I needed to do something different but there were too many questions and uncertainties for me to make a firm (and happy/confident) decision.

When I thought about relocating and picking up my life and starting over, while it was both scary and exciting, I also realized it wasn’t the right time. Between work commitments, financial realities and other situations that needed to be addressed, I understood major change was impractical. So I firmly re-committed to D.C. and continuing my life here.

But the universe works in interesting ways. Those situations I needed to deal with, are now managed. The time is right for a change. And suddenly — I’m presented with an opportunity to do something.

So I am heading to Seattle this weekend to truly assess whether or not I could call it home. To look at neighborhoods, check out apartments, meet with friends who are already a part of my support community no matter how far away they currently live.

That’s why Seattle is really the only option for a (self- vs. job-funded) relocation. I have communities of friends already there. Personal friends, work friends, circus friends — it just seems like the right place to target for a major life change.

If I ultimately want to make one, that is.

Staying in D.C. is, of course, an option. Yet when I look at D.C. and ask myself if it feels like “home”, to be honest, I’m not sure. I’ve been here since 2002 (after also living here from 1995-1998). That’s a long time. Friendships have come and gone, relationships and marriages have come and gone … jobs, hobbies, communities, and life has changed — as I have right along with it.

But it’s been a long time since I’ve really felt that my life here is giving me what I need. I’m lost. I’m searching for something, but I don’t quite know what — or where.

Folks, I’m not getting any younger. What am I waiting for? I learned long ago things don’t happen if you sit around and wait for them.

Stay tuned!

With few exceptions (e.g. Chris Cornell), the news of a celebrity suicide on its own doesn’t trigger tears. And to be perfectly honest, it doesn’t make me think of my brother or focus on him at all — weird, right? But regardless of who ended their life and what I feel about their movies / music / handbags, hearing any news of a suicide transports me back to November 1, 2009 when I was driving in my car late Sunday afternoon heading west down Route 50 towards my home in Arlington, Va. That’s where I was when I got the phone call.

Because I’ll never forget that moment. What it was like to find out. The disbelief, shock, pain, and crippling fatigue. Anger, sadness, grief. Feeling like my heart was ripped from my body while being repeatedly punched in the stomach. Having to alert friends and family and tell the story again, again, again, again, again. Dealing with arrangements. Packing up offices and apartments. Going through the motions. Attempting to return to normal through the numbness. Realizing that there is no such thing as normal anymore.

For the most part, when I learn of a celebrity suicide as I did today, I feel the onset of a panic attack. Nothing that’s going to lead me to a breakdown or make me dramatically lose my shit, but there’s the tenseness in my chest. The labored breathing. That feeling in the pit of my stomach. While knowing that I’m not going to cry, a feeling of being on the verge of tears. It happens in an instant, and basically I’m toast for the rest of the day.

It isn’t exactly convenient – I mean, I can’t really tell clients “someone whose movies / music / handbags meant nothing to me took their own life today so I can’t work the rest of the day as I need time to re-process my feelings from eight years ago”. But that’s exactly how I feel.

Perhaps if anything, what I’m feeling is an empathy reaction for the loved ones of the deceased and an understanding of the shock they just experienced. I am subconsciously welcoming them to an exclusive club for suicide loss survivors — a community no one ever asks to or wants to be a part of. I’m absorbing some of that explosive shock and pain that we all feel when we go through a suicide as there is no armor strong enough to fight it off.

With a suicide loss, the “why?” factor (or really, all the “whys?”) is something that maintains its aggressive hold long after the initial shock wears off. Why didn’t they ask for help? Talk to someone? Know how much they were loved? Know that it is never as bad or hopeless as it seems? It’s another, deeper layer of emotional cuts and grief that may never heal. And years later, it’s, Why am I still reacting to news of a random suicide with an emotional response?

As always, this anxiety will pass, and I will become functional again soon. I will not dwell on the fact that someone who seemingly had all the success, accolades, money, admiration, love, support and hope in the world would end their life. Mental illness does not discriminate.

Of course, I want people who are thinking of ending their life to know that they are not alone and there is always help (call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255 (TALK) or go to SpeakingOfSuicide.com/resources for a list of additional resources.).

But for the survivors, the ones left behind – I also want you to know, you’re not alone either, even though sometimes it feels like where we are is the loneliest place anyone could ever possibly be.

Well, my friends, I’m assuming you already know that it’s never appropriate to guess a woman’s age. Never. It’s always a losing situation. I tried to change the subject, but she kept demanding, certain that I would think her to be oh-so-young and youthful. Haha the joke would be on me!

“I don’t know, mid 30s?” I finally lied, to shut her up.

“Nope! I’m FORTY-TWO!”, she exclaimed with a smug smile, continuing that annoying head tilt.

Oy.

More than a decade later, I vividly remember my thinking at that moment, telling myself to make a mental note of the conversation and the situation. I wanted to remember it so when I reached that ancient age of 42, I would recall the tragedy and pathetic display of someone living in the past and trying to cling on to a youthfulness that had slipped away without her realizing it. I vowed that I would never represent that caricature of “woman who thinks she looks younger than she is when she actually looks older than she is.” (it almost deserves a Garbage Pail Kid card, amirite?)

Well, the risk of me being that caricature is pretty much gone. Any confidence that I had from looking “good for my age” (whatever that means) has vanished. I increasingly do a double take when I catch my reflection in the mirror and don’t recognize the person staring back at me. When did my face become all shadows? Why are my eyelids a sagging mess? What are all these lines? WHO IS THIS OLD PERSON??

I’m not going to lie, aging blows.

Fuck. It’s My Turn.

I suppose that I’ve been lucky — as I progressed through my 30s and beyond, people generally put me at a few years younger than I am. Funny, how when I was a teenager and in my 20s I always wanted to be older. If I could get away with calling myself 28 when I was 22, I would go for it. STUPID GIRL.

However, more and more lately I am faced with the harsh reality that those days are over. My face has caught up to my age. No longer do I get the occasional ID check when buying alcohol, no more do people act surprised when learning my age, it’s all ma’am, all the time. The lines on my face and under my eyes reveal the decades behind me. The days of the selfie are long gone (unless there is full studio lighting or aggressive Instagram filters) as I’m just a giant shadow.

The vanity is only one part of it. The worst part of growing older — at least for a woman — is that once we hit 40, we’re invisible. Poof! No one sees us. No one wants to look at a woman of a certain age. There is no feminine equivalent of “silver fox”. Even men older than me won’t turn their head in my direction — why would they when there is a willing 20-something right there? And I can’t blame them — it feels like only yesterday when I was that willing 20 something.

So yeah, I probably shouldn’t be that concerned about my aging appearance given no one is looking at me anyway.

I know everyone goes through this and I’m hardly alone. It does feel a little ironic however — this is actually the part of my life where I should be MOST visible! I’m doing some pretty amazing things right now. I love the professional work I’m doing, I’m strong and in shape, I’m still growing as a circus artist. I’ve overcome some pretty remarkable personal and professional challenges and continue to barge ahead. People counted me as down and out years ago, but ha! not so fast, fuckers. What’s not to love about this moment and where I’m going? I may be doing it with sagging skin, gray hairs and wrinkles, but it still feels pretty good.

There is no part of me that would want to be in my 20s again. If I had to pick a “forever age”, when I think I looked and felt the best, I would have to go with 32. I wonder if that age will change if I make it to age 60 or 70 or beyond? Will I be telling stories at the old folks home about how I long to be 45 again? (for the record I AM NOT 45 I AM WAY YOUNGER).

So this is middle age, I guess. It happens to all of us. I may not love what I see, but I’m not slowing down one bit. I’m going to define this part of my life on my terms, even if those terms come with me looking my age.

I’ve performed many times over the years, and preparing for a show is certainly filled with hard work, self-doubt, a few breakdowns, and with any luck a breakthrough or two. Sometimes a show is an opportunity to show off new tricks (there’s nothing like throwing a trick in a show for the first time!); other times you polish off the old, consistent tricks to create a diversity of acts and styles among all the flyers (it is a troupe, and a troupe act — not a solo performance — after all).

While I had big hopes for big tricks in this show, it just didn’t happen for me this time. The frustration part of the show prep journey dominated my training for months. There’s nothing worse for an athlete than a plateau, and when a show performance looms, it’s easy to feel like you’re falling further behind with every practice as opposed to moving forward or improving. When I got in my head about everything, I knew I was toast.

Two weeks before the show, I had to scrap my show performance plans and start over. I was very disappointed and to be honest, felt like a failure (and more than a month later, I can’t really say that feeling has gone away). But as they say, the show must go on.

Showtime!

For this show, I ended up throwing tricks I performed a number of times in the past. While I was frustrated about how things ended up, as the act started I was reminded how supportive and wonderful the audience is. While I may have felt like a failure and that everything I threw was just another representation of me not achieving my goals, the crowd, unaware of my challenges, showed me nothing but love and support … and it was awesome.

Sometimes as I beat myself up over not having the show-ready big tricks that I’m working so hard to improve, I forget that in the spirit of a show, everything is amazing — every trick, every act is a demonstration of an incredible amount of hard work and preparation. Shows are supposed to be fun after all – for the audience more than anything. I like to think that it was.

So how did it go? Well, I didn’t post these videos to my personal Facebook or Instagram accounts due to the fact my followers have seen me do things like this a bazillion times … and to be honest, it wasn’t my most polished flying (squeeze something, woman!). But I gotta say, there is something special about stepping up on that rise when Beyoncé’s “Who Runs the World (Girls)” is blasting.

Moving Forward

More than a month after the show, I still don’t quite feel like I’ve found my flying mojo. Once it’s gone, it’s really hard to get it back (just ask Austin Powers). However, I’m hoping that a lot of my downward spiral was a result of the winter (and life) blues, feelings and negative situations that are now evaporating a bit with the sunshine. I’m working hard, staying focused, and picked a few new and different things to work on to hopefully shake me out of my rut.

As with any athletic endeavor, progress is never linear — we take a few steps forward, then a few steps back. The important thing is to keep moving forward, and I am trying my hardest to do so.

I grew up in Buffalo, and let’s be clear – I do NOT miss the long, cold, snowy winters of my childhood. But I DO love a good snowfall every now and then, and we got nothing here in D.C. this winter. Once or twice a season, I want at least a foot of snow (that goes away in a week or so).

This winter was nonstop cold and cold rain, and I have major snow envy of all my east coast friends. But according to the Washington Post‘s Capital Weather Gang update from three hours ago:

Less than 12 hours before the storm starts, model forecasts suggest as little as 2 inches and as much a foot could realistically fall in the region Wednesday.

A foot!!!! Woohoo!

While the snow isn’t supposed to start until tomorrow, today we were greeted with freezing rain, much to the dislike of my poor dog. I decided to make a big pot of soup to get me through the (probably?) last winter days of the season.

I’ve been on a bit of a cooking kick over the past few months. I splurged invested in an Instacartmembership awhile back, and in addition to saving me tons of money on grocery store visits, an unexpected surprise is how much more I cook and prepare food on my own, vs. going for takeout several times a week (saving even more money – the investment has more than paid for itself!). I’ve really enjoyed making big batches of soups, stews and chili this winter.

[Follow this link to save $10 off your first Instacart order! You’re welcome!]

Today I made Lemony Lentil Soup, a recipe I found on Gimme Some Oven. This is the third time I made it and it’s a new favorite (I’m obsessed with lentil soup). The author provides stove top, slow cooker and pressure cooker versions of the recipe – I’ve only done the stove top version. I definitely recommend it if you love hearty soups like I do.

A few notes:

• The first time I made it, I accidentally used green lentils instead of red because I don’t pay attention to things. It was still great!

• The second time I made it I used red lentils because I pay attention to things. This version was a bit more watery — not sure if green vs. red lentils cook differently? Still amazing, but I made a note that next time I would cut down on the stock.

• This time, because I don’t plan ahead and didn’t need enough from Instacart to get free delivery, I used 1 cup of red lentils and 1/2 cup of green lentils, because that’s what I had on hand. I also messed up and forgot to cook the carrots with the onions, so I threw them in with the garlic so they only cooked a minute or so before adding the liquid and everything else. It was still really good, definitely chunkier which I liked. I also scaled back about 1/4 cup on the stock and it was perfect.

• I love the lemon flavor and next time I’m going to play around with some extra lemon juice. Also, I’m horrible at zesting a lemon and usually give up so maybe if you know what you’re doing and properly zest your lemon it will give you the flavor that you want.

So while my friends up along the east coast hunker down for yet another snowstorm (and kids home from school), I’m planning to fully enjoy the beginning of spring with this (hopefully) fabulous snow and delicious soup.

Bon appetit!

note: I’m regularly asked about vegan recipes and what vegans cook/eat, so hopefully these kinds of posts are helpful. I’ll only post the good stuff / things I would serve my friends and family!

When training as an aerialist, so much of what we do demands upper body strength. The stronger the upper body, the better. Pull-ups? Every single day. But legs? Well, if you can keep your legs straight and point your toes, you’re pretty much good to go. And I can do both of those things very well!

It’s been a long time coming, and I’m fully aware that it is time to make legs a priority part of my workouts. As we know, gravity is the enemy of everyone over 40, and I need to work hard to keep my tushy (and skin) moving in the right direction. Also, my future mobility and flexibility will greatly benefit from keeping my lower body strong and mobile today. And let’s be clear: my lack of lower body strength is simply embarrassing.

Leg-ish Day

Lately I’ve been training at a local gymnastics strength training center and really enjoy the classes. They’re full body workouts, so you devote a little bit of time to each muscle group over the 60 minute class. I’ve joked with the instructors about my aversion to legs, and have intentionally not added weights to lunges or squats because a.) I am a major wuss, and b.) I want to see how my body reacts to incorporating lower body exercises and adjust accordingly, as opposed to overdoing it and not being able to walk for a week.

Last night, I took a class that had us working on single leg squats. Dude, I knew I was in trouble after the first set. I couldn’t even make it half way down into the squat – and this included me holding on to the stall bar. I felt my legs and glutes turn to jello as everyone else in the class rocked through their sets with ease. Then I started to panic – I walked to the gym from my apartment. But would I be able to make the .3 mile / seven minute walk home? Seriously, it was that bad (and while I contemplated getting a Lyft, I did manage to painfully make the walk home).

How I feel today is nothing short of embarrassing. My ass hurts. My hamstrings hurt. My quads hurt. (my abs and upper body feels great though!). How can I call myself an athlete when the most basic of lower body work knocks me out? Squatting down to open a drawer in my refrigerator was excruciating. Getting up from my chair is equally challenging.

Friends, it’s that bad.

So, let’s call this a wake up call. Time to take my lower body training more seriously (and by “more seriously”, I mean do something — anything — that can be considered a lower body exercise). And I’ll start as soon as I regain feeling in my ass.

Stay tuned!

So far in January, things are going pretty well! I’ve taken some new fitness classes in addition to working hard on my flying trapeze training and conditioning, cooking a ton of healthy vegan food and testing out new evening routines to help address my sleep issues.

None of this change has been particularly easy — until this week, D.C., like most of the east coast, was in a deep freeze that started before Christmas. Yes, I grew up in Buffalo, but that doesn’t mean I like the cold (there is a reason why I permanently left western New York more than 20 years ago!). When the high temperature tops out at 20 degrees yet again, all I want to do is eat all the bread and drink all the wine and snuggle all the animals and watch all the Netflix.

From an exercise perspective, I am fortunate that one of my jobs keeps me pretty active — I teach at least five flying trapeze classes a week, and pulling safety lines for two hours is a workout of its own. But when the job can feel like a workout with all of its physical demands (albeit one that I am well conditioned and trained to take on), that also can make it challenging to motivate to do additional exercise and conditioning.

While so far so good this year, I found myself getting into familiar negative mental and emotional patterns one day last week. Early in the day I circled a potential yoga class or a conditioning class for my evening workout. But as the day wore on I realized I was just exhausted. My body hurt, my brain hurt, I was a bit overwhelmed. What to do?

I knew that my body and mind were giving me all the signals to take it easy after a physically (not to mention mentally) demanding few days. However, typically if I miss a class or a workout for any variety of reasons (from work/job pressures to just being lazy) I immediately categorize myself as a failure and end up with all the guilt and self-loathing for the rest of the day or longer. Can’t even make it to a yoga class? YOU FAIL, AGAIN, LOSER. The downward spiral is fast and aggressive.

Why such immediate negativity? Rest and recovery is just as important as that extra pull-up or chatarunga. Luckily I AM very active, and if my body is demanding I take a day off it isn’t me making lame excuses. (well, it’s usually not anyway!). Taking some down time does not result in me being a failure — regardless of the reason.

So I added to my new year’s goals to allow myself to take — and to celebrate taking — downtime. The ability to find that kind of time can be challenging enough, so I need to embrace it for all it’s worth.

And you know what? My evening on the couch, watching TV, having some wine, even putting away the laptop (shocking) delivered more benefits than a fitness class ever could have. Plus, I was back and better than ever the very next day.

As milestones tend to do, this one crept up on me – it caught me off guard when I received alerts on LinkedIn from contacts congratulating me on my work anniversary. Has it really been seven years?

I have learned so much since venturing out on my own – it’s been quite a ride, with all the highs and lows that are expected when you run your own business. I am also aware of how much more I still have to learn, and am happily embracing that journey forward.

Taking the Leap

Being a freelancer is freeing, empowering, terrifying and panic-inducing all at the same time. When I originally made the move to contracting (my post “The End … But Really, the Beginning” illustrates just how blissfully naïve I was) I was still married, so there was an initial safety net in terms of knowing the bills would be paid (and there would be health insurance) regardless of my client load. Not even six months later my husband and I split, so the financial security that comes from a dual-income relationship quickly evaporated. My entrepreneur journey therefore has truly been as a solo artist where the only person I can count on is me.

So yeah, that’s scary as hell.

I made the decision to become a freelancer following my brother’s suicide, when I took a critical look at what was making me happy and what needed to change. From a professional perspective, I had always done “the right thing”. I worked my way up the corporate ladder taking on roles with greater responsibility, building experience through non-profits, public relations agencies, small businesses and Fortune 100 corporations. As a type-A individual I was always challenging myself to progress faster, take on more, be better.

While many of my friends — very successful and talented in their own right — referred to me as their “successful friend”, I was horribly unfulfilled. When working 60 hour week is the norm, not the exception, it’s hard to have any kind of balance. Every moment is fueled by adrenaline. After 15 years of the act, I was over it.

I missed creativity. I missed art. I missed exploring passions. I missed learning — not about my company or my clients, but about those other areas in life that are interesting and fulfilling. I missed ME — my spirit was dead.

Going out on my own and embracing the freelancer life has provided me with incredible opportunities to explore alternate careers while growing and building my PR business — teaching yoga, becoming a circus artist, teaching flying trapeze. How lucky am I that, in addition to my public relations job that I truly love and pays my rent every month, I can do these other amazing things?

But Don’t Be Jealous

But don’t think for a second any of it has been easy, or that you should be envious of my decision and resulting life. The reality is I make less money as a freelancer than I would in the corporate world — although admittedly, this is by choice. I make the choice to explore circus and yoga and to do what I need to do to make me a more complete and happier person. I do not know what I would do if I didn’t have these outlets, these opportunities to physically, mentally, emotionally grow, the ability to teach and inspire a diverse group of people. Yes, I could easily make a lot more money, but of course I would have to sacrifice some of the other work I do that truly keeps me sane, healthy, and able to be the best person in my other professional and personal worlds.

The truth is, paying quarterly taxes blows. Having a health insurance plan I can barely afford with a $6,500 deductible blows. Not having money automatically arrive in my checking account twice a month blows — and so does making two, three, four phone calls to clients asking where the money is that was due one, two, three weeks ago. The 60 hour work week has not gone away, and taking a truly disconnected vacation or time off is still a fantastical dream. I can’t remember the last time I had a weekend off.

Overall, I work harder than I ever have in my life, but it is so much more meaningful. Oh my god the stress is still there, and it can be a ridiculous struggle. But these are my choices for better or for worse, and I stubbornly embrace the “for better”.

As the seventh year of my solo-preneurship kicks into gear, I celebrate the fact that I am on the right path, regardless of how challenging it may be. I know I have to be more aggressive in chasing new business opportunities and promoting myself — as the saying goes, “the cobbler’s children have no shoes.” It’s time to make myself my most important client. I know I have an amazing story to tell — and that helps make me a better storyteller for my clients as well.

So, anyone looking for PR, marketing and communications support? Give me a call 😉

Oh, how I wish I could follow that statement up with something exciting and life-changing. Alas, five years after moving into my current unit (which I wrote about here), I am simply moving to a different apartment in my apartment building. From the second floor, to the fourth.

Moves are funny. Going through all of your worldly possessions can be a slap in the face in terms of showing you very explicitly where you are in life and your current reality. It also reveals more than just the happy memories packed away; not every trip down memory lane is a pleasant one.

Even though I got rid of a ton of stuff when I downsized to move here, I held on to more than I needed to. It feels strange to now get rid of things that have been with me for so long – some from before I was married, some things that were my brother’s. Things I held on to because I just always had them around, or thought I needed them around.

It’s weird when something that was at one time meaningful, is now just clutter. But here we are. Off to recycling (or the trash) we go.

In just a few days, I’ll be embracing the feeling of a fresh start (hopefully without too many boxes lingering around). The new apartment is about the same size as the old, so we’re not talking any kind of massive changes. But I welcome the time to re-organize and re-prioritize.

I look forward to writing my next post from a sunlit apartment (my current place gets zero sun, not a single sunbeam!) high enough off of the ground where people won’t be climbing up my balcony trying to break in. Small changes, but I’ll take them!