Around five years ago, I was driving by myself in New Mexico. It was February, and I had just finished taking a relative down to Tucson for an opportunity to get his life in order. He had been a real mess. Suffice to say, his life had not been easy, and he had reached a point in his life where he had decided to get sober and work on a remote desert ranch, taking care of a former beauty queen’s animals on her hobby farm. It felt like one of those moments of desperation, when someone says, “I’ve run out of options, can you help?”
I had dropped him off in the middle of the night at his new digs, a 10ft camp trailer about forty minutes north of Tuscon. They say that comparison is the thief of joy, but as I drove the 1000 miles back to my home in northern Colorado, I couldn’t help but see how enthusiastic (and terrified) he was of his new opportunity. I, on the other hand, had been working the same job for roughly 18 years. I felt like it was going nowhere. I wasn’t happy. Like many of the people working in the higher education system, I was being led through the back 9 of my career path, keeping my head down, anticipating the final stretch when I could finally retire.
And what then?
What kind of life was that? I was bound by the golden handcuffs of my retirement. I hated my job. I sat at a desk all day long, being reminded of the lack of doctoral letters at the end of my name every time someone came into the office. I felt unimportant, underpaid, and unappreciated. I watched my life tick away every day as my superiors got to enjoy trips to Thailand or Russia for “international good will.” My life was far from anything I had dreamt of when I first graduated college. I had trained as a writer, and other than a few short story credits and some commercial copywriting as a side hustle, I hadn’t gotten much of a chance to do any writing.
As I passed through Santa Fe, arriving in the evening, I walked alone through Sena Plaza. It had been raining that night, but the warm scent of pinon wood burning was enough to take the chill off. The Palace of the Governors was empty and La Fonda was bustling with the afterparty of a wedding. I stopped by the St. Francis cathedral and found myself reflecting about my own life. In many ways, I was no further from a moment of personal crisis than my cousin, only I was suffering in silence. I wasn’t happy. I felt the discontent growing within my soul like some kind of cancer. I knew eventually it would kill me. As I sat in silence at the cathedral, an idea began to form in my mind.
I loved to travel. During my marriage, so much of my life had been sedentary, working, then coming home to raise kids and clean the house. Deal with a tumultuous marriage to someone with demons of her own that I could never overcome. My divorce had been rough. Unnecessarily rough. In nearly twenty years, I hadn’t been anywhere. I hadn’t done anything but wipe butts and noses. Be reminded by everyone in my professional life as well as my personal life that I was a commodity. Reduced to a function, like a toaster over or a coffee maker. Where was the life I had always wanted?
At the time, I had been single for several years, but the conflict had continued. On top of that, I was recovering from the end of my first post-divorce relationship, as well as the alienation of two of my three kids. I was reaching critical mass when it came to my life. But here I was, walking around one of America’s oldest towns. The experience was rejuvenating.
I asked myself what would life be like if I could do that kind of thing all the time? Combine my love of travel with my ability to write. I got a call from a friend who asked what I was doing. I told her I was walking around Santa Fe at night, and I had decided I wanted to be a travel writer. She told me I should absolutely NOT do that. She warned me about what it would do to my retirement. As though living to get old and live hand to mouth on the scraps of a retirement plan was the goal in life.
At the time, I was 44 years old. I could feel my knees not working like they once did. My feet hurt from walking around the town and driving long hours. But at the moment, in that exact moment, I felt more alive than I had in years.
My ex-girlfriend and I were supposed to have gone on a cruise or trip with friends to Cuba. That was not happening. When I got back to my house, I had another 500 miles to think and so I used the money I had saved up for that trip to book a solo trip to the UK. Ten days in London. I had never booked a flight before, and I was also looking at vacation rentals to stay at for the trip. Those two moments became canonical in my life. In another year, I would be laid off from that job I had been warned by a friend that I couldn’t leave (they made the choice for me that I didn’t have the strength at the time to do on my own). Then the end of another relationship and a global pandemic put everything on course to essentially burn my ships for any return trip to the life I once knew. A life which, frankly, I despised.
I have been supporting myself with writing full-time for the last four years. I don’t miss that old job one bit. I live in a converted school bus on the road with my dog now. My life is completely different than I ever would have imagined walking those rainy streets alone on that night in February. Since then I’ve been to the UK, then Ireland, most of the Western US, from Colorado to Las Cruces, NM, Phoenix, 14 national parks and monuments. I’ve seen two oceans. I’ve met amazing people and seen things I cannot believe myself most of the time.
I’ve also began to truly know who I am. My values. My boundaries. I have faced some of my deepest fears and made tough decisions. I have been alone, but rarely lonely. I have fought with my own ghosts and demons, I have howled at the moon, alone in the desert at night. And been brayed at by donkeys at times.
I have begun to understand that sometimes life is a trade-off. If you really, truly want something, sometimes you have to make compromises. I’m not rich doing what I am doing. Living meagerly in my bus affords me the ability to travel and write for a living. I’m building my business, finding opportunities. Trusting myself more. Sometimes I mess up. But every milestone feels like an accomplishment. In the last year, I have been published numerous times. I get better with every article I write. Every story I tell.
Why am I sharing all of this? Because sometimes you need to remind yourself how far you have come, instead of losing heart at seeing the road ahead. Five years ago, I didn’t think any of this was possible. Now I’m living it. It’s not easy, but it is worth it. Getting out of your comfort zone is the first step to getting out of your own way.
Along with that comes some unexpected perks. My travel writing/journalism has pushed me to be a better listener. I interview people all the time for my job now. I’ve learned that most people need a voice and I can do that for them. I have also gotten to be a much better photographer. I rely on my camera to capture moments that help guide my stories when I am writing. The way I am living has been honing so many of my skills. That guy five years ago wouldn’t recognize me today, but I like to think he would want to be my friend.
I was told once by that ex-girlfriend that I didn’t have a lot to bring to the table. For her, my limitations were based on money, but also probably confidence. Being reminded I was less-than (she had been one of those people with letters after their name at the University), had an impact on how I perceived myself as a person. I was wrong in thinking their opinion of me mattered. My life is filling up, in good ways and I’m always adding to it. I’m wealthy in many ways that you can’t attach a price tag to.
Sometimes I feel bitterness about my career trajectory. I’m not a young, 20-something influencer getting jobs because I look good on camera. Sometimes I resent how easy it might be for some. I see that someone who can’t even write might get a press trip to a foreign country, or get to stay in a luxury resort just because they have a billion followers on TikTok. That’s not my life. And honestly, if it were, I would probably feel the same way about it as I did that desk job at the college. What I bring to the table isn’t quickly eroding youth or sex appeal. It’s character. It’s determination. Experience. And a lifetime of being chained too long. I crave adventure and I savor every moment I get.
All these years later, I am getting grey. My generation’s time came and went. I know I won’t get rich or live forever, but I am living. I appreciate these moments I get to have and the people I meet. Making new connections, sharing experiences, and holding out a hand to help others over the wall whenever I can. I live, I love, I am sometimes content.
That’s what I bring to the table. How about you? What do you bring to the table?
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