Apt 1002-03
Get out of the way!
Her arm blocked the elevator panel. I reached behind her for the button. Her eyes locked on her phone. Every single time. The dog and I got off at the dog park. The dog’s tail wagged. Next time, I’ll ask her to push the button for me.
I’m being spontaneous.
This isn’t impulsive.
Last week my daughter and I talked about my trip. I tried to explain how I want to keep my itinerary flexible. I’m starting with 90 days. Now I’m planning a year. Maybe I’ll come home in the middle of it. Maybe the whole trip will be a bust. Maybe I’ll stay north of the equator. Maybe I’ll keep the southern region in there.
Planning this trip makes me realize that I’m looking for the sweet spot of spontaneous and impulsive.
On the Amtrak yesterday.
A young woman came on.
Before she even sat down, she was scribbling and writing in a day planner. Her pen rapidly moved as she turned the pages. Flip, write, flip, scribble. The book cover too short for the spine.
She opened her computer. The calendar popped up. Colored blocks covered the week. In her internet browser, dozens of tabs displayed while the Wifi spinning wheel continued. She picked up her phone, swipe, swipe, refresh on the computer, swipe on the phone. She took a second computer out of her bag.
Apt 1002-02
I’d left my glasses behind.
My hair was hanging in my eyes. I got on the down elevator. Pushed 10. Ping. The door opened. Again. Again. I was already on 10. I needed floor 2.
I need a U-Haul.
I booked the flight.
I told my boss. I sold my car. Today, I’m staring down a closet full of clothes, purses, and shoes.
Maybe I should have been thinking about leaving my closet.
Apt 1002-01
I moved across the country a year ago.
Having not lived in an apartment since my 20’s, I was worried about Oliver, my nine-year-old mini golden doodle disturbing my neighbors. I picked out a 10th floor apartment, all the way at the end of the hallway. I had lots of time to think.
I have a detailed spreadsheet.
I open it every few days even if I don’t have any updates. I’ve tried to capture every expense, both at home and in-country while I’m gone. And on paper it works. But I’ve never been good with budgets. Upgraded flights, expensive private tours, and last-minute itinerary changes. The irony that I work as a Director of Finance doesn’t escape me.
I need to leave room for uncertainty. Or is it impulse?
I’m trying something new.
After reading a piece in the Atlantic the other day, I’m spending the day diving into a new form of writing: non-fiction essays.
It’s a shift away from the story-based writing I normally do and I’m realizing how much I’ve missed flexing this muscle.
Yesterday I did an interview and the host had me thinking long after the interview ended about the difference between fitting in and belonging.
I shared a chapter from my book, a story about inviting myself on a trip to Ireland. I wrote that belonging was something you had to reach out and claim.
But now, I think it’s more than that. I think to belong means you have to believe you deserve to be there.
Parlez-vous français?
More than thirty countries and I’ve always found English.
Until last winter in West Africa. I took French for many years—grade school, high school, and college. I never became proficient in it. On that West African trip, I was grateful to be part of a tour, so the language barrier stayed in the background. But this place-based inquiry will be different.
I’ve signed up for French lessons because this trip depends on paying attention.
It’s another rejection.
A rejection. It hurts. But I am noticing that my rejections are getting better and better:
No response. —>
Thank you for submitting but we are going to pass. —>
We found this piece engaging, especially the striking imagery…
Now, we are getting somewhere.
142
This morning, I read through the first 142 items on my feed.
The results:
14 Articles
36 Notes
92 Grow your Substack Notes (tips for getting more followers, engagement strategies, monetization advice)
And it’s not even 8 am.
A year of connection
Or maybe just a year talking about connection.
I’m trying to find my voice.
I just finished working on a piece and I’m wrestling with two versions of my voice.
When I read them side by side, they don’t feel like the same writer. I’m curious which one you prefer.
A: Yet this time, I was taken back to Christmas; I stopped midsentence and sucked in my breath. The silence felt near complete.
B: But midsentence, the internal grid shifted. I was pulled instantly back to the couch in Chicago. I stopped talking and sucked in my breath. The silence in my headphones felt near complete.
My resignation letter.
Last Friday, I told my boss I was leaving. We had discussed it once or twice before. But I don’t think either of us believed I would give up the nice office, the high salary, and the title. Up to now, I’ve been fitting in reading, writing, and thinking wherever I could find time—at night, early in the morning, during work hours.
But that life no longer fits me. So I’m resetting. Some movement, some stillness. My Kindle and iPhone sitting alongside a backpack and notebook.
My daughter graduated last weekend, and the tension between me and the other side of the family felt thick.
When I got home, I couldn’t stop replaying the events.
So I opened my computer and went down a rabbit hole — building the tracking tools for the place-based inquiry I’ve been designing. A packing list. A budget tracker. A dashboard to monitor it all.
Dear Ms. Johnson,
When you’re planning a long-term stay like this, you start to think about what your days are going to entail. I have a fear of staying still and who I am when I do.
I wasn’t aware of websites and apps which list opportunities to volunteer. Last week, I created a profile and even reached out to an NGO via email. She responded promptly and I have a video chat set up to learn more. Now, I’m trying to stop the thoughts running in my head: what if I do all this prep and still don’t move.
I’ve flown more than 300,000 miles in just a few years. Last weekend, I boarded a small airplane and my bag didn’t fit overhead.
The boarding line stalled. I wanted to disappear.
Seems to me, all those miles don’t matter when you’re still not sure if you belong.
I’m a purist. Following the rules even when the rules don’t make sense.
Not inviting myself if I haven’t been invited.
Waiting to be sure before I reach out.
Maybe I am the reason people don’t connect with me.
This isn’t travel.
My family and friends don’t understand what I’ll be doing in Africa.
They think it’s just another trip. Last week, I told my son, “This is research, and travel is how I do it.”
I am reading books about the migratory patterns of early West African kingdoms, the role of Islam in their development and current daily practices, and how to notice different behaviors and what they mean. While I want to remain open about what I observe, it’s important that I know what I’m seeing.