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.
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