Today was full in the way these days tend to be—errands, sweat, decision fatigue. But it also held a kind of quiet progress I almost didn’t notice until I sat down.
a years worth of errands
This morning I dropped off a donation bag that was nearly as big as I am—clothes and shoes I’ve been holding on to for years. I even let go of a backpack full of college textbooks. It felt overdue. The kind of overdue you don’t realize until you’re carrying the weight of it down a staircase and wondering why you ever thought you’d reread that many intro to psych chapters.
I also took a trunk full of things to the dump. Old boxes, broken things, pieces of a past life I didn’t need to hold anymore. That one trip emptied out half a car—and still, my room doesn’t feel empty. Somehow it’s still too much. Too much clutter, too many odd little things taking up space, too many corners that haven’t quite caught up to the fact that I’m leaving in seven days.
The suitcases are almost packed.
I know what I want to bring—it’s all piled neatly in a corner. But the act of packing never feels final. I’ll repack tomorrow. Maybe the next day too. It’s not just about fitting things inside a bag; it’s about feeling ready. And I’m not there yet.
Somewhere in the middle of all that, I returned a few stray bottles, bought a pair of running shoes (because of course I realized mid-declutter that the only pair I owned was destroyed months ago at work), and picked up dinner because the heat made cooking feel impossible. Honestly, even making a bagel this morning felt like too much. The toaster made the kitchen feel like a sauna. I briefly considered skipping coffee, but—let’s be real—I am far too committed to my caffeine codependency for that.
I also tested my new prepaid card, checked a few more things off my ever-growing list, and wondered how it’s possible to do so much and still feel like there’s more I’m forgetting.
I’ve got one week left before I get on a plane that takes me halfway across the world. I’ll be in a different country for the rest of 2025. By myself. Without my family. That truth keeps dropping in at strange moments. It’s thrilling. It’s terrifying. It’s a little bit of… tremidention? Trepidation?
Whatever the word is, I’ve got it.
Nerves and joy. Anticipation and doubt. Pride, melancholy, and something I can’t quite name yet.
But if this week has taught me anything, it’s that I don’t need to figure it all out. Not the whole trip. Not the whole year. I just need to take the next step. Finish this task, close that suitcase, reroute to the side quest, follow the wooden path, cross the rickety bridge. Those detours, the unexpected bits, the things I didn’t account for—that’s where the story lives.
So yes, I’ve spent more time this week on my bedroom floor than I have in years—sorting through boxes, transferring shampoo into small bottles, packing and repacking the same set of clothes. I’ve run around like a headless chicken. I’ve stared blankly into closets. And still, somehow, it all feels worth it.
Because this process—this slow unraveling of one life to make space for another—is already doing what I hoped this trip would do: it’s making me face the things I’ve been putting off. Stuff I didn’t sort. Emotions I didn’t touch. People I haven’t seen. All of it, brought to the surface by a single decision to leave.
And all of it, I think, is part of the leaving.
