So much of my days over the last several weeks, I’ve been adjusting to the newness.

A new city, a new place to live; new neighbors, new sounds, new streets. Learning my way around, trying to establish a routine; it’s felt like a challenge and a breath of fresh air.

When you jump, walking away from the familiar, it’s frightening. Even though it means things may improve, the pain may end, and so on, you’re still scared. It feels vulnerable to come to another place and start over, again. Feeling supported by my siblings, I was grateful for their motivation; knowing they wanted me to do what was right for me was crucial to me being able to make this move.

I knew it was the tight thing for me, before I even mentioned it to anyone. Somewhere in my gut, I knew. I have had my confirmation so far. I feel home, for the first time in a very long time. I am looking forward to starting a new job and making some new friends. I’m exploring what this place has to offer me, and I’m excited about what the future holds.

I’m excited. About the future. I almost don’t recognize those words as I type them. I had lost most of my optimism (though I’ll be fair and say I’ve never really been optimistic). I had abandoned a lot of the hopes I’ve had, and struggled with the few that remained. I no longer feel like I’m drowning in my despair. It’s amazing how despondent you can get when you’re surrounded by depression everyday. I deal with it myself, and I don’t mean to blame it all on that, but I didn’t realize how much damage was being done – both to me and by me.

I get a couple more days before I start my new job in this new place, and while I should be sightseeing or something fun, I am mostly just happy to “be”, without expectation. It’s a good feeling.

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