This year is the 10 year anniversary of my move to San Diego. Something I generally consider to be one of the best, if not the best, decisions I’ve ever made for myself. 

I fell in love with San Diego the way you fall in love with people. Even though Utah is my heart and home now, San Diego and my initial move out west taught me a lot. If you want something, it’s better to do it alone than not at all. Big risks are worth taking. If something feels right to you, go ahead and do it even if everyone else thinks you’re being stupid and actively tells you so.

Which is not to say that right things are easy things, or that doing things alone isn’t lonely or even scary, even if it’s better than not doing the thing at all. 

A week or so after I moved into a city that I loved, but where I knew no one, I slipped and almost fell in the shower. I was fine, but it was a sobering moment. What if I hadn’t been fine? I had barely started a new job a day or two before. If I failed to show up, they’d probably assume I just flaked out of the position. I didn’t have friends in the area yet. My family and I don’t talk on the phone often. I was certain in that moment that if I got injured or worse while alone, no one would notice until the neighbors started complaining about the smell. Not the most uplifting thought.

But it forced me out of my comfort zone. Through most of my life I had made friends through school and activities. In San Diego I had to make a conscious effort to meet people – engage with coworkers, signup for meetups, join local Facebook groups, reach out to strangers. Again and again and again until I found my people. It was worth it. Hard. But worth it.

Unfortunately, the 10 year anniversary of my move to San Diego goes hand in hand with the 10 year anniversary of my ex-fiance breaking up with me on my birthday, a day after we mailed wedding invitations, and then subsequently intentionally misleading and even actively lying to his family and friends about who ended things so he could sleep with one of his students, then change his mind, try to get back together, refuse to respect my boundaries when I said no, and proceed to spend several months actively harassing me and worse before moving back to New York with the woman he started dating while still harassing me. That’s without getting into some of the grosser and more uncomfortable details. 

Shit as that all was, it was the kick in the ass I needed to start doing the things I wanted to do, even it meant doing so alone. I didn’t just move to San Diego. I spent weeks road tripping out there, with one of my best friends (who flew back to NY after the drive). We stopped at landmarks. We stopped at parks. We stopped anywhere that looked good. It’s the first time I remember visiting a national park. 

I spent a decent amount of time outside as a kid. I ran around on local trails. I got lost in the woods behind our house. I was lucky to go to summer camp several summers. I climbed a whole lot of trees. Nature was something I enjoyed, but largely took for granted. 

Multiple national parks were on that road trip out of New York, but the first we stopped at was Shenandoah. We pulled over at an overview, and sat there talking. We spoke about a lot of things, but to be honest – mostly about trauma and things we were struggling with and had struggled with. Beneath us the valley rolled out green and endless, a slightly cloudy blue sky above us with a dramatic storm casting shadows on the trees far in the distance.

As we talked, the storm rolled in closer. We stayed. The rain was dramatic and beautiful, stark against the still blue sky around it. Eventually the rain hit us – I remember being shocked at how hard it was coming down. I was used to rain, but this was something else. Something visceral. Still we stayed. 

I couldn’t articulate it at the time, but I knew something important was happening to me. In sharing with my friend, we were both purging ourselves in a way. Voicing ugly things to begin freeing ourselves of them. And then the rain came, literally washing us clean. It was the first time I consciously experienced nature as a space for healing. 

The outdoors has continued to provide that for me, with San Diego being a home base from which to explore and grow and learn in all sorts of wild spaces.

It’s tempting to say all of that culminated in my PCT hike last year, except that wasn’t a culmination. It was a new beginning. But, one that wouldn’t have been possible without everything that preceded it. 

A lot of my time on trail was wonderful. And a lot of it was hard. I spent a lot of time alone, forced to reconcile with myself. And with that much down time, you dredge up a lot of things. Sometimes old things. 

I spent a lot of time on trail thinking about other people. 

I started hiking alone, hoping to meet one or two people to hike with and call my tramily. It took a while, but I did find a couple of people. And then our group grew, and despite enjoying everyone in the group individually, I felt overwhelmed and split out on my own again. I later fell in with another group that I grew to love and spent the rest of my time on trail with. I didn’t understand why the first group didn’t work and the second one did. 

With no cell service most of the time and nothing to do but walk, I thought about the more than anyone probably would otherwise. I’m an introvert. An outgoing introvert, in that for the most part I like people but still an introvert in that crowds overwhelm me and I need a lot of down time after socializing. That’s something I’ve generally accepted about myself for a while.

Until, somewhere in a Northern California burn zone, I remembered that I used to have large friend groups in high school and college. And sure, I had some friends I was closer with and more prone to one on one time with. But I had loved those groups. The camaraderie. 

A physical therapist on trail told me that sometimes our bodies intervene before we feel pain. I think our brains do that too. We avoid thinking about things that make us uncomfortable or sad (except y’know when the anxiety kicks in and you can’t stop, but that’s usually not happening in any sort of productive way). 

I had been aware that I felt isolated from my college friend group, and then later felt like I had lost most of those friendships after the end of my relationship with my ex-fiance. I mostly accepted thst as my own fault. I didn’t handle the breakup well. I withdrew from a lot of people, and was depressed until I set the goal of moving to San Diego at which point I became single-minded about making that happen. But I also felt lost in how to communicate with anyone about how I was feeling.

It had been impressed upon me that adults didn’t put people in the middle. My ex and I shared a group of friends. I didn’t want to make anyone feel like they had to choose between us. But I was also grossly uncomfortable around him or anyone associated with after how things ended and then subsequently dragged out. The by product of which was that most of our friends stayed in touch with him while I distanced myself, until I realized what I had done to myself but felt it was too late to walk back from. 

I never really embedded myself in a group after that. It wasn’t a conscious choice, and I wasn’t even aware until this past summer how much, despite largely healing and moving on in other ways, I had held onto that. And in acknowledging it, could finally start to let it go.

I fell in love with a whole group of people this summer. I felt happy and loved and safe with my chosen family. I have since spent more time in groups and crowds than I have in years. I still miss those old friends, but it’s a lot of time and distance to reach across, thought I think at least since then I’ve gotten better at advocating for myself.

And I’m happy.

I have zero interest in reliving most of what brought me to where I am, but I am happy with the person I’ve become, with the life that I’ve built, the life I’m continuing to build, and all of the things that wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t gotten in my car and refused to look back.