Nextness

A reflection on what's been been true, what remains true, and my relationship with expectation.

Here's the truth, I don't really know what’s next. 

In the last year I have accidentally set a precedent that I am always on the move. That I am living a life that twists and turns in exciting and unexpected ways. I spent a year responding to texts, weeks after they had been sent with excuses like, “so sorry! I was taking a spearfishing course in Lanzarote and didn’t have any service” or “I’ll be off grid for the next 30 days. I’m crossing the ocean, talk soon!”

I didn’t invent this person on purpose, but it felt good to be thought of as the girl on the move. The girl who couldn’t be tracked down. I had quit my job to begin sailing around the world with nearly zero experience. Shockingly, It was working. I was doing it. I had sailed from Maine to North Carolina, then flew to France to begin sailing in the Mediterranean before taking on the massive task of crossing the Atlantic. My parents had stopped worrying, they trusted the adventure, the journey. They trusted me. My dad would relay interactions he was having with people in my hometown where he would get to tell them where I was. I could tell he was proud. I was proud too. This identity was wild, and the wild kept growing bigger and bigger. It was mesmerizing. I was on fire. Sparkling, unfolding, becoming in a world that is so huge and so tiny, all at once. It felt good. It felt like purpose. That is, until I wanted to slow down. To put down roots. To be still. 

This freedom that I had wrangled into working in my favor started to feel limiting. Reflecting on this makes it easy to see just how controlling I wanted to be of my freedom. I was working just as hard to be free as I was to be boxed in. I believed that I was living well. But in reality, I think I was only living big. I was finding fulfillment for the parts of me that craved uncertainty and excitement, but that meant starving the parts of me that needed stillness, consistent connection, home. 

Learning how to live alongside loss has been critical to my growth. I had to let go of my material home in order to begin living this new uncertain and exciting life. In May 2021, I stood in my fully lived-in apartment and agonized over letting things go. I knew that I had to really get rid of it all. If I put my things into storage I wouldn’t commit to this new way of living as fully. I couldn’t think of this time as a trip, or a break from life. This was life, this was the dream, I had to lean all the way in. At that time, I was spending nearly all of my teaching salary to rent a very small apartment. The paint chipped walls didn’t matter to me, they weren’t mine. My things made the space mine. My things were home to me. As I slowly sold, gifted, and donated my things the apartment felt less and less like home. But without the things to fill a new space, what is home? 

The first three months of sailing were spent grieving the loss of my things — the coffee table I had cherished, all the artwork made lovingly by friends and students, the closet that overflowed with colorful sweaters and flouncy dresses. I had preached about how getting rid of everything is something everyone should have to do. There is something easy about only having the things that you need. It felt energizing to know that at any moment I could go anywhere. I wouldn’t have to choose what to pack because nearly everything I owned zipped snuggly into a carry-on bag that only took a few good shoves to fit into an overhead bin. 

Letting go and starting new has been teaching me that I am enough. I am home. Special coffee table or not, I can build homes anywhere, just by being. 

This time of adventure has shown me to myself. I have learned how to lean into the discomfort of being alone. I actually enjoy hanging out with me. 

Ten months after selling all of my things, I was hanging out with myself doing work on a friend’s boat off the coast of a small island in the Caribbean. The work I had agreed to do wasn’t necessarily work that I knew how to do (yet), but by March I had learned that I am patient with a YouTube video and if I give myself enough time, I can figure most things out. The job required many dinghy trips into shore for me to hunt for the various parts I needed. On a windless day, their very slow dinghy took about 35 minutes to get from the anchorage to the dock. 

On one particularly hot afternoon, I was in the dinghy, drenched in sweat and finally heading back to the boat when the motor cut out. Fuck. I checked for oars. None. Fuck. Okay, I thought. I was bobbing over swell, baking in the sun, pretty far from where I needed to be and being pushed in the wrong direction. Perfect. I poked around the outboard a bit. Tried to start it a few times before coming to peace with my fate: I have to wait for someone. 40 minutes later I was definitely sunburnt and considering hopping into the water to try and swim the dinghy back to the boat. Out of desperation, I gave the engine one more good pull. It started. A weak putter that went in and out. But I made it back to the boat. This scene happened three more times that week. Each time it was frustrating and hilarious and each time I made it back. Once, a kind passerby towed me back, once the motor magically started, and once I swam. 

These moments that I've spent, alone, wet, scared, and alive are what it’s all been about. Of course being there, in the roasting dinghy, realizing that you are floating along without any control of where you're going, it’s tough. I have done my fair share of ocean crying. But, like most things, once you get back to safety, once I reached the boat, I felt unstoppable. It was funny and frustrating, and I was excited to tell someone. Out there in the ocean I was stripped of all my learned coping mechanisms. The ocean rubs you raw, literally and figuratively. The salt ate away at my skin and the monotonous rock of the boat slowly broke down any emotional walls that were once used to protect myself out in the world. 

I have all of these stories, these moments that sucked first, but bloomed into beauty. These experiences where I thought I just couldn’t do it anymore. And then I did it. I kept going. I kept stumbling onto boat after boat. Feeling more and more myself while also feeling more and more alone. I was far away. I was scared of stopping. I was scared of letting this strong, capable, raw version of myself go. 

So, what’s next?

The dreaded question. The dread comes from a fear that I will let my people down, that I’ll let myself down. I had worked to convince myself and everyone in my life that leaving my job and selling everything was going to work. That I would be okay, that I wouldn’t run out of money, or regret any of my choices. My proud parents, my wide-eyed friends, the bosses that I left when I first abandoned everything, I needed them to know that it was all worth it. 

I am okay. I didn’t run out of money. I don’t regret any of it. And it’s not over. 

Next for me is living in a town for as long as I want to, with a partner who I love. We will sleep in a bed that is planted firmly on a floor that is connected to the ground. Next is learning how to find peace in a life that has moments of stillness along with moments of unhinged adventure. Next is evolving my relationship with nextness. 

I am letting myself off the hook. I will continue to live wildly, that part of me has only just woken up. I have only just started to understand how strong and capable I am. I believe that I can continue to foster this fiery independence and desire for deeper self discovery in spaces that are closer to the people that I love and the coffee shops I frequent. 

So, that’s the truth, I don’t really know what’s next. But thanks to the last year, I know I will make it to the places that I am meant to go. I know this because I know my own patience, the wild kindness of others, and, when totally desperate, my ability to swim.