Author: Jen

I’m afraid to leave my little corner of luxury for what feels like a wasteland. I’ve grown familiar with the season of anticipation that settles in after accepting a job, signing a lease—those rituals that mark a kind of finality before the next unknown. That’s when the observing begins. Everything around me is filtered through hypervigilant identification and mental filing, each detail looped into another thread of the same unraveling sweater.

The yards here are so tidy—clean, orderly, anonymous. But I’ve missed my turn again and find myself lost in the grid, glancing at my gas tank, feeling grateful I have a car, grateful I now know how to navigate these metro streets with ease. And still, I tense up—worried I might accidentally drift into one of the gated communities. My hand jerks the gear shift—drive, reverse, drive—while I mumble a half-apology to some invisible authority for crossing the unseen lines that divide class from class.

I imagine the transition to a rural space will be very different. I already know where to go to feel safe. The landscape changes season by season, but the navigation stays simple. There’s comfort in a place just close enough to the city, where I can’t possibly end up on a major interstate that spits me out among rock formations like old college friends or trailheads like forgotten dive bars. These are the places where no one knows my name, and anxiety begins to soften—melting like butter on fresh bread, the kind I’ll eat with a bowl of seasoned lentil soup once delivery is no longer an option.

I’m preparing to return to habits I picked up in a previous phase of life—before I understood the value, and privilege, of boredom. The wild spaces offer what I find myself admiring most here: the ground. Not curated. Not sold (well, maybe aside from a park pass). Not built to turn a profit.

This time, I’m not pretending it will be great. But I take comfort in having a purpose: to live cheaply, simply, and in a way that will please my Siberian Husky—at least some of the time. She’s been learning to make friends at daycare; confidence spills off her long pink tongue as it bounces to the side of her mouth, keeping rhythm with her uneven, joyful, tripod gait. She’s a portrait of grit and grace, never staying hurt for long. She uses her smarts to play sad just long enough to get a few more shreds of cheese on top of her kibble, which she prefers to eat socially—with me.

Lately, I’ve noticed the smell of wet dog lingering in the air, blending with the smoke of Nag Champa I light every few days. I whisper prayers of thanks to my uncle and ancestors. I have inherited the strange blessing of staying long enough to see that the world doesn’t quite fit me—but I’m still here.