Tomorrow marks three years in Chicago for me, but I’ve lived enough life here to make it feel like thirteen. First things first, you should turn on ODESZA’s “Kusanagi” before you start reading. I pretty much listened to it on repeat while I penned this. And if you really want to set the scene, you can pour yourself a vodka soda (no lime, because I was out, but on the off-chance you have one on hand, by all means).

Also, I’d be remiss not to say feel a little self-conscious about this post. Mostly because I don’t want it to read as though I’m rehashing old narratives. The thought of who will read this and what they could make of was almost enough to keep me from hitting publish. But no matter where I’m at, this is part of my story and what shapes me and how I process life. 

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The decision to move to Chicago started with an innocent tweet. One that read, “just throwing this out into the universe….but Chicago seems to be calling my name,” sent from the balcony of a cruise ship in the middle of the Caribbean Sea after what I’ll admit was one too many tequila shots. My dream to call the city I had become so enamored with my home kept me up at night and I knew I wouldn’t truly rest until I made it mine. And so I began planting seeds. The days/weeks/months spun around me in a whirlwind, filling the pit of my stomach with the same butterflies I felt on the first day of high school, the ones I felt before my first kiss, and so many other of life’s mini moments. 

What I didn’t realize was that Chicago would stretch me to my limits. That it would show me parts of myself I wasn’t ready to see. And that it would inevitably be the catalyst to the end of the forever I had promised someone. A jarring realization that the old cliché rings true, there’s a difference between loving and being in love.

I remember that morning like it was yesterday. My perceived shortcomings painted the walls of our 600 square foot shoebox in the sky. My inability to make my relationship work the way it used to bubbled up and boiled over as my body sat paralyzed by the words that seemed to roll so easily off my tongue once I finally got started.

I don’t know how many days stand between that memory and the one where he held my hand as we sat in the very back row of our flight, bathroom doors slamming open and closed as we made a bumpy decent back into the city, a foreshadowing of the days to come as we set out to unravel the life we had so meticulously weaved together over the course of six years. But I do know that I’m forever grateful for his patience and his understanding in a time when I didn’t even understand myself.

I love the way the days of summer here in Chicago remind us not to take anything for granted because they won’t be around forever. I know now that it’s in my best interest to treat everything like it’s the last time.

But I’m still learning to accept the reality of impermanence. And I’m constantly reminding myself that my path doesn’t have to look like everyone else’s. I’ve been doing the work, asking for what I need and then accepting what I’m given, even if it’s not in line with what I want. I have Chicago to thank for that. I hope that by living my life in this way, maybe, just maybe, I might get lucky enough to find what I’m looking for.

While I’d love to wrap my time in Chicago with a neat little bow, that would be an impossible feat.

I still love this quote so much.

When I moved here, I didn’t know the woman I would become, but it’s nice to finally meet her.
  – Alea Lovely

If you’re in search of more personal posts, these are a good start:

A Letter From Jess

A Lot Can Happen In a Year

In My Next 30 Years

Matters of the Heart

The Closing of a Chapter