Today I took myself to breakfast. I sat alone, I thought alone, I ate alone. On the way there, I didn’t turn on the radio, or music, or a podcast. At the table, I didn’t pull out a book or my phone. The funniest part is, by choosing to be alone today, I felt less lonely than I have in a long, long while because I was finally with myself.
Every year around this time, I’ve been in transition. Every. Single. Year. Without fail. After graduation, I moved to Washington DC. After a year in Washington DC, I moved to Los Angeles. After a year in Los Angeles, I decided to change jobs completely. And here I am this year, about to make another huge decision. I laugh to myself because I often feel like I’m living a hero’s journey full of choices and decision and bravery, although I don’t feel like a hero and I definitely don’t carry a sword. Maybe I should.
It’s always the same set of feelings. Excited and hopeful. Mostly nervous, terrified. I think through every possible outcome and doubt every single one, then wait until the very last minute to choose. Somehow, it’s worked out great for me so far. But this time it’s different. It’s different because for the first time, I’m not running away from anything. Not a job I’m not passionate about, not people I can’t seem to cut off. Everything is going great for me, but I feel inexplicably compelled to go; to leap into something that doesn’t promise instant or traditional success and that doesn’t look pretty on the outside. Something I could fail greatly at. And I think that makes this time the hardest of all.
After breakfast I walked a few blocks on Ocean Avenue. I stopped to stare down at the beach from the overlook. I had no clock, no timer, no where to be. I wished life was like this. But then I remember it is.
I started walking down the two-mile ramp to the sand and stop halfway when I remember my beach blanket is in my car. It crosses my mind that I would have no where to sit and would’ve walked a long way for no reason. But it also crosses my mind that I may stumble across something to sit on, even if it wasn’t the ideal beach lay-out I was envisioning.
I decide to keep walking, feeling adventurous. I’d sit on top of my bag, or even on my jeans in the sand. What’s the worst that could happen?
When I get to the bottom of the long and winding ramp, the cement transitions into beach. Right there is a little cafe with beach chairs sprawling across the sand — one that I couldn’t see from the overlook. They were perfect and comfortable and cute and even better than my old ratty blanket in the back of my car. I sat there for hours in total bliss.
I could have written you this letter to tell you how I’ve dealt with change in the past, or how tough it is now, or that we’re going to make the right choice. All of that is true. But both you and I already know all of this. The decision is already made. Our hearts knew the instant it was presented to us.
Instead, I wanted to tell you this story. The story about how I took this confusing, noisy time to be finally be alone, to be grateful, to be present, to thank God for all that was and all that will be, and to love myself before the beautiful storm begins. I wanted to tell you to take the ramp, to pause and look out over everything you’re creating for yourself, and to keep going. Something you didn’t even know existed will be there waiting for you. Something spectacular; something quite possibly greater.
PS. The blanket will always be right where you left it.
In this Open Letter series, I tackle various life topics by writing a letter to an anonymous and real friend who is going through it firsthand. My hope in writing to one is that it resonates with and helps all. This letter is for you, too. If you would like a letter, please email firstname.lastname@example.org. Thank you for reading, sweet friend!