The Track My Mind Runs

Post-trail depression, misalignment, and the hard truth: surviving somewhere doesn’t mean you should stay. A record from the middle.

There’s an old, familiar track my mind likes to run, whenever it’s on autopilot.

The path is a singular loop, the terrain a mess of gravel, sticks and cobblestones. Seasons tend to either mute or fortify any savory color and life, but the scenery remains much the same. It’s the life I used to know, and it doesn’t fit anymore — it’s no longer comfortable or easy — yet I’ve slipped into it all the same.

As it stands, I have been running that track for the past two months (since my last update on Type Two Fun). Now, it’s time to bench myself and pour into what that’s been like. I apologize to those who subscribed expecting weekly newsletters about outdoor recreation; it turns out, I am still trying to eke out a life for myself that encompasses and reflects everything I am passionate about. I’m not there yet, and at least for right now, I want to share the struggles I’ve had trying to get there.

In the next entry, I will get back to writing about the Colorado Trail. If you’d prefer to hear about thru-hiking only, I recorded an episode earlier this month with the Adventure Sports Podcast that I’m sure you will love! Give it a listen below.

To those who are still with me, thank you for your patience. I write for you.

In the beginning of October, I drove down to Tampa (from Michigan) and singlehandedly loaded up a U-Haul with all the furniture from my storage unit, drove it to the city dump, and threw away nearly everything to my name.

I tried to give most of it away, but in reality, free things don’t seem to inspire the same amount of material lust as things that cost money, so instead I watched a massive truck with steel wheels covered in spiked teeth compact everything I had once used to create a sense of “home” into a few cubic feet of wood, metal, and plastic. It was the final nail in the coffin of my love affair with Florida, one that had started nearly five years ago. I was no longer bonded, be it by trauma or Ikea bookshelves, to this physical space. The relief was immediate.

When I wasn’t actively removing all trace of me from Tampa, the place I used to call home, I found myself slipping back into a past version of myself pretty quickly. I revisited the community garden I used to volunteer for to help them battle the never-ending scourge of weeds. I had one more Lucky Charms iced matcha with the people I used to call family, those with me through thick and thin. In the early morning hours, my brother and I took the boards out to Fort De Soto and paddled around as dolphins and cormorants followed closely by.

My mind always jumps to the cormorants first, with their slick black silhouettes vying for sustenance. They work together to hunt, then fight without hesitation wherever bounty is found.

Back in April of this year, I’d fled Tampa after finding out the man I was in love with (and living with) had been unfaithful. It was a sordid affair, to be sure, but I ran from that life with giddiness and glee; I recall laughing in his face when I found out, because in that singular shattering moment, it was as if all the feelings I had left over for him had been exorcised from me, and I could be free once more. No longer did I need to worry about the profundities that lie in being tethered to this man for the rest of my life; I didn’t feel the insatiable need to iron out our inconsistent plotline anymore. Our story was over, the final chapter complete.

Now, eight months later, I’m realizing that there are still many things I need to process and heal from.

Walking the Colorado Trail helped me take pause and clearly see, through my own lens, what I wanted from this little plot of life I’d been given. After moving back into my family’s house the same month I turned thirty, I had a big hankering for drastic change, and I felt I had the resources at my disposal to execute on it.

I bought the seeds, I tended the soil.

I measured my own faith against the odds and swelled with gratitude and pride when my soul yelled back “to hell with the odds”.

Then I planted with abandon, intent on never looking back or remaining in the present moment for too long.

When I got back to Michigan, I set out to find a full-time job; one that would help me save as much money as possible before moving to Colorado. I landed on a fine dining gig thirty miles away from my family’s quaint country home, a downtown staple I felt I could bet the next several months on. Despite my ability to adapt to various workplace environments, however, I have felt as if I’m standing on the cliff’s edge of my own being since I started there.