I have arrived.
I have arrived. Not gracefully. Not quietly. And certainly not with one of those perfectly curated photographs where I’m standing beside a “Welcome to Arkansas” sign with good hair, a clean car, and a caption about exciting new beginnings. I arrived tired. With pneumonia. Bone-deep, soul-deep, don’t-ask-me-to-make-another-decision tired. I arrived with boxes, cats, Mom, Dakota, receipts, road grime, stories I’m not quite ready to tell, and the lingering suspicion that somewhere between Washington and Arkansas I personally offended at least three gods of travel. But I arrived. And those may be the two most important words I have written in a very long time. I arrived. Leaving Wasn't the Hard Part People like to romanticize leaving. They talk about closing doors, starting new chapters, following your heart, and taking leaps of faith. That shit looks fantastic embroidered on a throw pillow. Actual leaving is uglier. Sometimes leaving means looking around at a life you w...