My life is packed to fit every available square inch of my ‘99 Toyota Camry as it sits parked
outside the apartment that I can barely afford. A well-used papasan chair is strapped to its roof,
bamboo bracing for the road ahead. I stride through the apartment one last time, not knowing
what I’m feeling. I leave a napkin note for my roommates to surprise them once I’m long gone. I
wipe away my tears and hop into the high-rise elevator. It shuts on the cold hallway and this
chapter of my life. It spits me out on the ground level; I’m starting over, embarking on a cross-
country move from Boston to Salt Lake City, Utah. It’s the furthest I’ve ever gone, and it’s all
based on a hunch.
A year before the move, I was working 12-hour days and spending a minimum of 3 hours in
traffic. I felt depleted, like my life was on autopilot and I was silently screaming on the sidelines.
Something needed to change. When I was brainstorming options one night, I remembered a
friend from high school that moved to Salt Lake City. My intuition burned. I needed to get to
Utah. Fueled by this idea, I called her, and she encouraged me to visit. Within minutes, I
stretched the last of my paycheck for a plane ticket. I spent three mind-expanding days hiking in
the canyons and drifting along the Great Salt Lake’s hardpan. I felt light, like I was getting to
know myself again.
Now, getting into the driver’s seat of my car, I’m chasing that lightness. I’m off to a solid start,
having recently unloaded my job and most of my personal belongings. I drive for three days on
I-80, stopping in Ohio, Illinois, and Nebraska. My little car gets lost in the shadows of lumbering
semi-trucks. I gain confidence with each passing mile. Later on, some of the truckers beep as I
skirt by going 100 mph. Their beeps probably signal annoyance, but it feels like camaraderie to
me.
I plan to complete the final stretch from Nebraska to Salt Lake City in one go. It’s Sunday and
I’m starting my new job tomorrow. The timeline leaves me half a day to move into my apartment
with the same friend I visited the year before. I’m high on anticipation but experience occasional
pangs of sadness for what I’ve left behind. I numb my anxiety with good music and keep moving
forward. Now that I’m closing in on my destination, I feel like I’m simultaneously coming together
and falling apart.
I’m bleary-eyed and buzzing by the time I arrive at the red brick apartment building. My friend
waits on the porch, swinging her arms to welcome me home. I parallel park in a tight spot and
open the door to my new life. The April air is fresh in my lungs and the mountains stand proud in
the distance.
Neither of us have much to move, so we head downtown to grab a well-earned beer. We stay
out later than expected. I’m caught up in the headiness of the fact that I’m really here. Barely
anyone I meet works a typical 9 to 5. Everyone seems to work odd jobs that allow them ample
time outside. No one is treating tonight like a Sunday. I’m not in a stuffy city anymore; I’m in
paradise. I feel affirmed that my life isn’t bound to a traditional path.
The night winds down and we walk back to our apartment. We open the door and step into a
darkened wonderland of high ceilings, white walls, and recently polished wood floors. The
streetlight streams in through the antique stained-glass windows, leaving an otherworldly glow
on the empty space. It looks like a yoga shala; it’s so peaceful. We lie down on the floor,
giggling and marveling at how little we have. Suddenly, I’m drinking it all in. I’m experiencing a
rare moment where my inner and outer-worlds are shifting in stride. I’ve stripped myself down to
nothing, awakened my intuition, and I’m lucky enough to finally encounter it—this is where
adventure lives.