it is not enough to be alone

we need our friends and families and neighbors and people that smile at us on the sidewalk

Hideaway bakery in eugene

Erin, Sadie and I are lying side by side in a too-small bed in Eugene, Oregon on Saturday night. It’s midnight, Erin has long since gone to sleep, Sadie a few minutes away from joining her and I am wide awake. At some point, my sister calls me from Canada and tells me she wants to live there someday. I nod in both agreement and fatigue and eventually I drift off into the tumultuous sleep of someone with a few two many drinks in their system. This, though, is one of the safest places in the world for me. Sleeping amongst my best friends, coffee plans in the morning, my sister taken care of. Erin and Sadie have known me so long that in the morning we bicker about Sadie’s snoring, pile into Erin’s car for coffee, and talk about our past selves that we remember so vividly. I become the 12 and 17 and 21 year old version of myself around them.

In a few weeks I am moving to my 5th city which means all I’ve been doing is slowly collecting and distributing my goodbyes to the people I’m leaving behind. When I hug them, I hold a little tighter because I can’t bear to say what I’m actually thinking: I don’t know the next time we will see each other. Hopefully it won’t be too long. In the midst of these goodbyes there is a part of me that knows this would be easier if I didn’t have so many people to hug. It would be as simple as stepping onto the plane. One steady movement and I’m off. But leaving when you’ve built yourself a complex, living organism of a social ecosystem is hard work. It’s a methodical cutting of veins and nerves. Each cut painful.

Now, I’m mature enough to admit my own faults. One of them being a hesitancy to show up for the people I care about. To drive someone to the airport, bring them flowers, get dinner after a long day, to answer the phone when they call. These are things that feel exhausting to me. I am not unlike a snail wanting to burrow itself back into its hard shell, protected from the things that scratch and prod in the world. But, to no surprise, I’m starting to understand why we do it. Why we create ties that are painful to leave, hard to maintain, precious to hold on to. It’s because nothing else matters as much as the relationships in your life. We talk about breakups and friend drama and fights with our family because they hurt but also because they matter more than anything else. I have been able to call 4 different cities home because of the people in each of them. Caring for my relationships the way you would tend a garden or bake sourdough or repair a hole in the knee of your favorite jeans is the most important act of love there is and I don’t know why I never noticed it before. I am lucky to feel sad about moving because that means I’ve built something worthwhile to miss. How terrible it would be if I went through the world never making a ripple, always being alone.

A few years ago, before a breakup, I told my mom that I just wished to be alone. To not have to hurt someone or have the hard conversation. I wanted people to leave me alone because I couldn’t face the not so happy parts of bringing people into your life. She told me that one day I wouldn’t feel that way because being alone is nice when it’s a choice, but if you always choose it then one day it will be your only option. You’ll get home from work and not be able to stand your own silence and want desperately to call a friend and meet for dinner. But there won’t be anyone to call. At the time I barely heard her but now I’m listening. Now I understand. Far better to rage and cry and be inconvenienced by the people you love than be alone. Far better to walk into a room and look people in the eye and ask how they are than move through the room unannounced and unnoticed.

So I’ve been working on it, this hesitation of mine. I call people back and make dinner plans and check in when I think of them. I’m finding it easier with time, and easier when I acknowledge that being around people can be hard for me. Sometimes I don’t know when to end conversations and I hate the feeling I get— the searching for something to say or how to signal I’m ready to hang up but don’t want to hurt their feelings. Maybe I’ll get better at navigating those as I get older or maybe a little discomfort is the price you pay to make people feel loved. I’m not sure. I do know, however, that these goodbyes give me some solace. I was here, I made a ripple, people will notice when I’m gone. What else is there?