I’m in my car. I have my water bottle, a backpack with a few clothes, my parka, and a pair of hiking boots. The rest of my stuff I’ve given away, sold, or left in bags by the dumpster in the alley, knowing people come through there all the time and will appreciate a twice-worn pair of sneakers I bought online that were 1/2 size too big. Or that big straw hat I bought for the beach, which I managed to use exactly once after landing my dream job, the one that said that I had “made it,” that I was set for life, that I was at the top of the heap. Well, really at the bottom until I worked my way up to partner. Then I’d be at the top and surely that was worth it, right?

Except the partners seemed to work day and night and on weekends too, just like all of us newbies, but for more money. I knew I was in trouble when I started looking around and seeing such emptiness in everyone’s faces. Lots of intensity and drive, yes, but, behind that, not much else. And then I thought about who was I helping in this work? That was the kicker. I wasn’t helping anybody. Just making the rich richer.

That’s when I knew I had to leave even if I didn’t know exactly where I was going. I needed to get out, needed to get away, needed to reorient my thinking to happiness versus complacency. To climb out of the velvet rut I’d created for myself and go do something that actually mattered to me. I knew I needed to listen to that tiny voice in my head that guided me in the right direction, that noticed when I actually loved something, like the smell of books in the library or the sound of a bee buzzing around a dandelion. That lack of listening was what had caused me to paint myself into a corner. A corner that I couldn’t escape without making a mess of the whole life that I’d created.

Would Julie forgive me for walking away from her? I doubted it. She didn’t sound as if she understood an iota of what I was saying when I said I had to leave. She just got that squishy-faced look of hurt I’d gotten more and more accustomed to seeing, and then slammed the door in my face.

Randy, my boss, did the same thing. He gave me a sideways look, then said, “Man, are you for real?” When I nodded, he just shook his head and walked out of my office. “Have a nice life,” he shouted over his shoulder, then added, “Go to fucking hell, too, you loser.”  

My two friends, Ross and Marcia, looked shocked when I told them, and then both opened up their arms for a group hug. After that, Ross went out to smoke a cigarette and Marcia leaned over and whispered, “Go for it, Justin. Don’t let anyone hold you back. You deserve more than living at an office 18 hours a day just so Randy doesn’t get mad at you. Send me a postcard when you get to wherever you’re going. Help me to remember to dream.”

I’m not going to let Mom and Dad know until I’m where I want to be and can take some deep breaths of fresh air. What difference does it make when I tell them anyway? They won’t understand and will tell me how disappointed they are in me, throwing away a future that was so bright with possibilities. I don’t know if they’ll ever understand, but I can’t let that stop me. Letting other people’s judgment has kept me locked up for too long.

As I head out of the city, the only thing I know is that I want to see the Grand Tetons. I remember a trip I took when I was a kid and seeing those mountains caused something inside of me to shift. I’ve yearned to see them again ever since. For now, following that dream is where I’m headed; I will trust that is enough.