It’s officially been a year since I moved to San Diego. I moved here with a backpack worth of stuff, a vague idea of why I was doing what I was doing, and barely any energy to think too much about any of it. I was at my end and I had decided this place would be my new beginning.

I landed in San Diego after spending a month house sitting in Denver. The end of my time in Denver was also the end of any concrete plans I had in mind. I had no where else to go. No where else to be. I could have stayed in Denver (thought about it). I could have moved to a different country.

I haven’t always stayed here. I added up the days recently and found I spent more time away from San Diego than I have enjoying the 70 degrees & sunny weather. I’ve resisted putting down any roots at all. The second one root shoots down into the community here, I instinctively recoil and – you know – book a trip to Paris for two weeks or something ridiculous. I oscillate between hermit and nomad proudly and recklessly – adventuring bravely out into the world then burrowing deep when I return to San Diego. The perfect depiction of this is in my bed: a queen sized air mattress that I quietly make nearly every day. It’s an oxymoronic symbol of how I view my time here: I care enough to make the bed but not enough to actually buy a real one.

San Diego has been my safe haven. My temporary shelter when my emotional status gets stormy. It’s been my calm spot. I’m thankful for the connections I’ve made here and the realization that I can create a life wherever I land. I never thought I’d stay here this long but then again I never am able to predict much of anything that ends up happening in my life.

Somehow I ended up here and somehow it’s been a year. The days sure do add up.


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