Leaving for Growth

Lately I’ve been feeling the pull of home more than I expected. I haven’t even left yet—still seven months to go—and I already find myself missing work, my team, the rhythm of the kitchen. I’ve worked hard to get to this place, and it shows. I’m confident in my abilities now. I know how to handle setbacks, how to pivot when things don’t go as planned. I’ve earned trust, and I know the crew counts on me to keep things steady.

Stepping away from that isn’t easy.

I’ve built something solid, something I’m proud of. A kitchen that runs with purpose. A team that works hard, laughs hard, and shows up for each other. BriAnne and I have worked together a long time—we’ve built a strong working relationship based on trust and respect. I know not seeing her each day is going to hit me harder than I thought.

Lately I’ve been wondering if I’m making the right decision. What am I walking away from? What am I missing while I’m gone? But I also know if I don’t go now, I might never go. This hike has been on my mind for years, and the timing is finally lining up. Still, every choice means giving something else up. That’s just the truth of it.

I’ve been walking more. Tweaking my gear, refining my pack, adjusting straps and pouches so things are just where I want them. I know once I’m actually out there, the trail will shape everything. What works now might fall apart in the first week. And that’s fine—I’ve dealt with worse in a kitchen rush. I know how to adapt, improvise, and move forward when things fall apart.

That mindset—years of it—will serve me well out there. Weather will change. Plans will go sideways. There might not be a vegan option. But just like in the kitchen, I’ll find a way to keep moving.

Still… there’s a part of me that aches for what I’m leaving behind. That’s how I know it matters. That’s how I know it’s real. And maybe that’s the price of choosing something new—carrying the weight of what you’re setting down.

But I’m not running from anything. I’m stepping into something I’ve earned the right to chase. And when I come back, I hope I bring something even stronger to the table.

Waiting Season

It’s been a rough week at work.

I love the people I work with—but I’m gaining some clarity. I’m starting to see just how much of myself I’m giving away. I feel exploited. I feel wrung out. I don’t enjoy what I’m doing, at least not for the amount of time and energy it demands. And it’s getting harder to pretend otherwise.

On Sunday, I went for a short hike with my full pack. Just three miles—a trail I’ve done a hundred times. Nothing dramatic. But this time, I had all my gear on my back. The same gear I’ll be carrying with me to Georgia in 298 days.

It felt good. Solid. Like it was real.

I won’t pretend my stoke level is pinned at 100. It’s not. Now that I’ve bought all my gear, the hype has quieted. I feel like I’m just... waiting. And I don’t wait well. I’m the type that thrives on momentum, on motion. When there’s no measurable action to take, it’s like sitting in a cage with the door open but a leash still clipped to my collar.

Sure, I could dive into more research. Start mapping out town stops, resupply points, places to stay. And maybe I will. But there’s also part of me that wants to not plan every detail. I want to leave room for surprise—for problem-solving, for serendipity, for finding out what kind of person I am when things don’t go according to plan.

So I’ll wait. And I’ll keep working. And I’ll hike when I can.

But something deep inside me already knows—I’ve started leaving. The journey has already begun.