Taking Life with Chances

So, while visiting friends in Washington state, I made the decision to stay.

Truthfully, I didn’t want to drive anymore. I was burnt out — from hotels, from being on the road, from always having the dog with me. I was exhausted.

Continuing on into Canada scared me. I was afraid of living in a high-rise. Afraid of being in the middle of a major city. Afraid of starting over in a new country.

And I was too embarrassed to go back to California — tail tucked between my legs — admitting I had made a mistake. Especially after hearing how “brave” I was being.
“I wish I could do the same thing.”

That kind of praise carries its own pressure.

So I took the first apartment I found. I arranged to have what little I owned pulled from storage. I repurchased the things I had sold. No real plan.

I just stayed.

When my belongings arrived from California, I thought that would help me feel settled — unpacking, setting things up, recreating some sense of home. And for a bit, it did.

It was July of 2024 when I moved. The long, beautiful summer days made it easy to feel swept up. I was outdoors, exploring parks with the dog, getting to know this new town. It was pretty rad — for a while.

As summer faded and fall quietly arrived, something else became clear. I started to understand just how much a job had once structured my life.

Not having one felt nice at first — freeing, even. But over time, it also made me a little untethered. Without the budget to go out often, and with most of my time spent in the same nearby parks, I started to feel out of sorts.

The novelty wore off. The days grew quieter. And I began to notice the difference between rest and drifting.

And now, almost two years in, I’m still not settled.
Sitting with these past two years, I keep coming back to the same question: what does it really mean to feel settled?