Worthy

When I think of leaving for Remote Year, I imagine my seemingly ideal life in New York, with all of those bells-and-whistles and Instagram filters, and I watch in slow motion, as I throw a grenade directly into the center.

The flames burst instantly. The smoke clogs my vision. I hear the explosion a second too late, and it startles me. My fists clench. My breath pauses. As I rub my eyes, and finally exhale, I see a figure walking from the scene. Her hair is frantic, her cheeks are smeared with debris. Her pace is steady and strong, her eyes focused directly at me. She gets closer, step by step, and once she fully comes into view, I realize, it’s me. She gets close enough to where we could touch nose-to-nose, and she asks:

“Well, Lindsay, is that what you wanted?”

When I think of 2018—and frankly, most of 2017—my stomach drops, as if I was on a rollercoaster. A fun one, for sure, but a ride, nonetheless. Though technically I celebrated New Year’s in Thailand, it didn’t feel like the start of anything novel. In part because when you’re moving every month, you receive that eager fascination every time you land. With no routine, no real way to set a resolution and stick to it, no specific time zone to set your clock to—every flight serves as an opportunity to try something new.

To begin again. And again. And repeat.

Going into that once-in-a-lifetime experience as everyone called it (and everyone was right), I thought I would arrive at the end of the journey, crystalized into a brand spankin’ new me. I thought I’d be transformed and wise. I’d have something profound to report, something interesting to say. I’d write a book. I’d continue to wander far and wide. I’d be a better version of the me than I was in Manhattan. I’d have some incredible revelation along the way. I’d feel it in my bones.

And sure, there have been moments of fascination and awe, wonder and beauty. But as with much of life, oftentimes the most impactful lessons aren’t the ones that explode directly in front of you. It isn’t that first shot at war. And it isn’t even the last one.

It wasn’t until I finally stood still that I could look backwards long enough to see how far I’d come. It wasn’t until I could undress the courage I wore on my shoulders for 15 months, and reveal the naked fear that had been there all along.

Until I could look back at my reflection, see the markings of all I’d been through, visible or not, and take stock at what changed. It wasn’t instant, but as I learned how to breathe at a normal pace again, it all became clear.

I was so afraid in New York.

I had checked off most of my boxes, but I was left with so many unknowns that I felt paralyzed. I was inching toward the start of my fourth decade, and I had yet to start the dating-marriage-baby process, when some of my friends were already finished. I had built this career I never doubted, but I was terrified of depending on me, myself and I for everything. I had cemented myself deeply in friendships that still take up so much space in my soul, but I had left little room for anything—or rather, anyone—else. I had followed all of the advice about finding a partner, and I yet, couldn’t motivate myself to turn off Netflix and meet a stranger for a date. I was anxious about the scale, and found myself intimidated by carbs, by dairy, by skipping a workout class in exchange for another round of drinks and laughter.

I had it together, sure. But I wasn’t happy. I was stuck.

What I didn’t see on that girl who walked away from her job, from her apartment, from her friends, from everything were the parts of her she didn’t know were bleeding. I couldn’t understand all of the hurt I had packaged up and wrapped away, applied pressure and pressed down a passport stamp to stop the flow. Lifted my arm up above my head to distract my heart from its rush. I couldn’t feel the anxiety until I had to unpack those bags and thus, empty out of my heart.

So that grenade? It had plenty to shatter along its path. And I can see it making its way from the universe, down that East Village street I walked home countless nights, tapping on my window and telling me to brace myself.

Because baby, it’s going to hurt.

And it did.

It pushed me directly out of my comfort zone with such a magnificent force, I actually didn’t feel it. I merely said ‘yes.’ To every last late night out, to shots. To last-minute invitations and side trips. To all of the food and probably more than I needed. Travel has a way of allowing you to overindulge and immerse yourself, and that’s just what I did, day-in and day-out. The images are beautiful, the lifestyle looks rosy, but really it’s work. Not only in terms of physical demand, but emotional lift, too. It’s fun, but it isn’t easy.

It not only introduced me to people I wouldn’t normally be friends with, but challenged me to share my home and a year of my life alongside them. It alerted me to racism I didn’t know I felt, and it expanded my tolerance across language barriers. It taught me of the limits I still have, and the ones that I don’t need. It helped me to foster healthier relationships, and have uncomfortable conversations. It gave me a purpose beyond bylines and waist lines, a home without having a roof or a permanent address. It made everything that I was once afraid of—driving, the dark, my fertility, my single status, my low self-confidence—seem well, not so bad.

It led me to walk away from those shambles I had created, unscathed, fully capable of escaping the scene, with no scar to show. Instead, I had a new tattoo—figuratively for now—to illustrate this journey that took me from worrying if I was pretty enough, thin enough, smart enough, brave enough, young enough, old enough, this enough, that enough….

Enough.

Enough.

I’ve had enough.

…I thought as I prayed for a safe landing into Asheville. Eager to crawl into my childhood bed. Ready to not even think about a glass of wine for a while. Prepared to let my passport cool down, while I zen out. Excited to sleep in the same sheets for longer than four nights. Looking forward to what comes after the grenade, when the glass scatters to the ground, the fire dies out and the smoke has cleared.

Ready to not only ask new questions beyond ‘what’s your favorite country?’ but have new answers.

Now, it isn’t about what I wanted or what I have done—but about what’s next.

And it’s that million-dollar question that didn’t quite cost that, but close enough, as I examine my 30-year-old place in life and figure out the move. It is not only a New Year because the clock is turning from December 31 to January 1, but also because I’m bunding up again, this time in search of a home—instead of a battle.

It’s the second time in my adult life I’ve had to make a decision. Or rather, a big one that is. New York was never a doubt, it was written in my fate. Remote Year was the first choice. And now, I’m tasked with another.

But my KGs are lighter. My hope is higher. My thoughts aren’t racing. My fear isn’t rambling. I’m not preparing for the impact, or fantasizing about a grand debacle that shakes everything up. I’m not worried about being enough.

Because I know I’m worthy.

And that perhaps, is what has meant the most to me over this incredible adventure. It is what I found on the other end. It isn’t buried within my tattered packing cubes or in that storage unit in New York City. It’s not hiding in the parts of my personality I feared too much or not enough. It’s the confidence that I discovered somewhere between the miles and the birthday candles. It’s the value I finally accepted I fully own. I know is completely mine.

It’s the terribly terrifying and yet, utterly beautiful sense of worth I was brave enough to see inside myself. And now, I have the courage to show to the world. Or perhaps, just to the United States for a while.

When I think of 2019 me, she has this warm light around her. She’s happy in parts of her soul she didn’t know she could reach. She’s excited, not fearful. She’s hesitant, yet ready. She’s unsure but she’s dancing in a newfound love for question marks. She’s breathing. She’s more herself than she ever has been before.

So, 2019 me reaches over and wipes away the dirt from from battle-wounded Lindsay’s cheeks and smiles. Her eyes crease with those little lines she’s growing affectionate of with every passing day. She takes in a deep breath and looks her directly into the eye as she leans in for a hug. She doesn’t just pat her back or casually squeeze her. She embraces her fully and truly, wholeheartedly and genuinely.

She lingers. She sighs.

She whispers ‘It is what you wanted. And what you needed.”

And then, she lets go.

She pulls back and gives her one more grin before she turns around and walks somewhere, powerfully, confidently to a place that is worthy of her shine.