Five months ago, almost to the day, I woke up at my sister’s house on a grey Chicago morning. “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing here,” I told her.
I had just broken up with my manfriend of six years; gotten rid of everything I owned but a few boxes of artwork, journals, and books; and left our new home, two kitties, and a wildflower yard behind. I’d quit my job of seven years, said goodbye to all my Portland friends, and boarded a plane to the Midwest with no idea what the hell I was going to do next.
And at about nine o’clock the next morning, I wasn’t feeling so good about my bold step into the Great Unknown.
“When you feel that way,” my super-awesome mother told me, “just be grateful that you’re not getting up at 2am to go to the bakery anymore.” And that helped. So…
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