Two weeks from today will mark the one-year anniversary of this blog. In the past 351 days, I’ve written more than 50,000 words and published forty-six blog entries. I’ve chronicled rooftop views, European adventures, teachable moments, and moments when I was utterly unmoored. I’ve narrated doldrums and delights, butterflies and heartache. I’ve written in, around, and through the challenges, failures, and triumphs of this past year – and it has been transformative.

Elizabeth Gilbert, of Eat, Pray, Love fame, has been quoted as saying “I’ve never seen any life transformation that didn’t begin with the person in question finally getting tired of their own bullshit.” Harsh, but accurate. A year ago, I was tired of my bullshit. I was fed up with the woman I had become – with the way my methods of engaging with the world had allowed me to shrink into myself, shirk responsibility for my romantic decisions, and shy away from possibilities because they didn’t fit the arbitrary blueprint for happiness I’d drawn up with plenty of help from societal pressures and expectations.

I was grasping, and I was tired, but I was hopeful. I knew I had to start somewhere. I had to take steps in some direction – any direction – because moving was the only alternative to standing still, sad and frustrated, exactly where I was. So, as Lin Manuel Miranda would say, like Alexander Hamilton, “I wrote my way out.” One moment, one smile, one interaction, one small risk at a time. “I wrote my way out. Wrote everything down far as I could see.” The more I wrote, the more risks I took. Every reader, real or imagined, became a partner in my journey – holding me accountable.

A dear friend shared my blog, and I was offered a freelance writing opportunity with Verily Magazine. I said yes. I bared my single soul to thousands of online readers – a massive jump from the ten who subscribe to this blog. I signed up to take a story telling class. I wrote more, and then I told a story in front of a live audience. It was nerve-wracking and exhilarating, and so much fun.

Lest we forget, I started this blog with the intention of transforming my dating life, and I did. Beyond the relationships I covered in the early months of my blog, I’ve had a few other dating adventures. I went on a date with a twenty-four-year-old who asked me out on the Pink Line between State and Lake and Adams and Wabash. I didn’t know he was twenty-four until, on our date, he started every sentence with “In college…” We drank fancy cocktails and listened to Beatles records in his twenty-four-year-old dude’s apartment before he paid for my Uber home. For weeks he would text me to ask if we could listen to records or go thrift shopping until just after my thirty-fifth birthday I told him that he was great, but we were in very different places in our lives. I sent him links to my articles. He texted me on his birthday, “I’m a year older now. I’m twenty-five. Much more mature.”

A man in the audience at my storytelling class asked me out. I said yes. On our first date, my phone died on the train and I got off at the wrong stop. I ran for blocks before I got so turned around, I flagged down a cab to drive me to the bar that was, unbeknownst to me, just a block away. The cab driver gave me hard time and then asked me if he should pick me up later. How would I get home if I didn’t have a phone? I politely declined and rushed in to meet my date – thirty-five minutes late. He actually wanted to see me again, and our short-lived, pleasant connection lasted for two dates.

I dipped my toe back into online dating. I went on one ill-fated date with a man who responded to my joke about the title of a book with “No, that’s not what it means. It’s a metaphor.” I looked him dead in the eye and said: “Oh, please tell me what a metaphor is.” He actually asked me out on a second date.   I dated a very sweet man who checked every single box except the most important one – I enjoyed his company but wasn’t attracted to him. We went on five amiable dates. He took me to Dusek’s, helped me walk the corgis I was dog-sitting, and rushed from work to take me out on Valentine’s Day “just to give me a hug and a kiss.” I wanted so badly to want him, but the connection wasn’t there.

In April and May, I was swallowed whole by the big white whale of my job. Out of the sheer need for energy conservation and self-preservation, I put my head down, my nose to the grindstone, and I worked my ass off. I effectively stopped talking to strangers. I existed in a fog of interviews, essays, AP testing, and final exams. I helped hire three new members of my department, successfully saw my seniors off to their AP test, helped pass out their diplomas at graduation, and received a plaque for ten years of service to Marian Catholic. Today, I graded my last set of final exams, cleaned out my classroom, and locked the door.

As I always do, I choked up as I walked out to my car, the last in the parking lot. While the end of a school year is joyful, it is also sad – it’s the end of a chapter. For the next two weeks, I’ll struggle to adjust to a different pace of life. I’ll wake in a panic at 5:30 am and get out of bed by 7 to wander aimlessly around my condo battling the rising feeling of panic that I should be doing something. This general feeling of unease that permeates every June of my life will gradually dissipate as I slow down and start to tackle the work I’ve set out for myself this summer – the work of reading, writing, and risk-taking.

It’s been 351 days, but in many ways, I’m light years from where I was twelve months ago. Now, I try to recognize my bullshit before it overwhelms me. Sure, I’ve made mistakes, I’ve taken steps backward, and at times I’ve stood still – but overall, I’ve taken some seriously awesome steps on this road of life. I can’t wait to see where the next ones lead.

 

Until next time…