Tomorrow I’m coming home. To be honest, I didn’t think I would. There are so many places to go, so many things to see, and I had just begun writing that story. All these plans had started taking shape in my head, and I was ready to leave the last four years behind me. As it turns out, the only place I really want to be is the place I was so eager to get away from. That’s what happens, isn’t it? You walk away from something only to realize your heart is screaming at you to turn around. I guess the story isn’t quite finished yet, and I can’t close the book until I know how it’s supposed to end.
I didn’t grow up in Orlando, and I have no family there. I will never be stopped in the grocery store by someone I used to go to school with, or recognized as so-and-so’s daughter or sister or ex-girlfriend. It isn’t my hometown. It is my home. I don’t know how to explain that feeling. Home. It is the only place I’ve ever felt relieved to return to. I have no idea how this sprawling, ostentatious city somehow managed to capture my heart. I have no idea what I will find when I return to it.
We all crave a little adventure sometimes. It’s exciting, and enlightening, and necessary. It took five months on the other side of the country for me to realize that adventure is based entirely on perspective. There is no more adventure in Colorado than in Florida. There was simply more adventure in the girl who bought a one way plane ticket than in the girl who was working double shifts and living above a garage. This summer did a lot for me, but most importantly it forced my perspective to change. It forced me to to look beyond the routine and see what a beautiful adventure every moment of this life can be, if you’re looking for it.
I don’t know quite what to expect in the coming months. I don’t know what happens next in the story. I only know that in twenty-four hours I step off a plane, and my next adventure begins.