I watched two trains go by today.

Both would’ve gotten me there.

I waited for the one I knew.

I’m noticing I’m choosing what’s familiar again, even here.

I don’t love that I’m noticing it.

Monday.

The first Teams ping lands before I’m out of bed.

The weekend reprieve is gone.

The anxiety is back.

Written before coffee. Sent anyway.

Yesterday, somewhere between Chicago and DC.

Music loud.

No one listening.

Still singing.

Nine months.

Human’s most beautiful gift takes nine months.

An academic year is nine months.

Three seasons pass in nine months.

Things can change.

What does nine months mean for me?

Freedom.

Nine months.

Back in DC, I went to Andy’s for the game.

I asked the manager if the bartender I knew was working.

He looked at me and said, “You’re Tracy, right?”

After writing about choosing anonymity, I didn’t expect how strange it would feel to be recognized.

At a bar in New Orleans the other night, I met a woman I talked with easily. Small talk. Laughter. Nothing especially revealing.

When it was time to leave, she asked if we could be Facebook friends.

I’ve been thinking about that moment since — how sometimes we let an interaction end where it naturally would, and other times we decide, almost without knowing why, to keep the door open a little longer.

The grocery store was busy.

In my line, a backlog of groceries sat on the belt.

The cashier’s eyes rolled.

Her voice was sharp.

She kept looking past the customers and toward me instead.

I noticed where her gaze didn’t go.

I noticed the words the young Latina bartender chose when a customer called her out of her name.

Calm. Precise.

Nothing wasted.