Make it Here.

4 years ago today:

I wake in a twin bed, a yellow comforter on top of me. I'm in a spare room in my then boyfriend's parents house in Connecticut. My cats are noisy, roaming throughout the room, as they'd been all night. I stare at the ceiling for a minute, roll over to look at my cellphone and realize it's not even 6am yet. The house is quiet. I climb out of bed, walk into the bedroom down the hall where he is sleeping, his tall, lanky frame sprawled across the bed. I squeeze my own tall, lanky frame onto the edge of the bed, he rolls over, asks me what time it is, gives me a hug before falling back asleep. I lay there, looking out the window, unable to sleep. I reach over and hold his hand.

The house comes alive soon. People are up, scurrying. There are showers to be had, coffee to be sipped, breakfast to be eaten. There is a christening of a niece planned for that morning, everyone is part of the mad rush to get to the church on time. Except for me. I stand in the family room, still in my boxer shorts and large t-shirt. I look at him, sitting on the sofa tying his shoes. He looks up, asks, "Are you okay?"

"I don't know if I can do this. I'm freaking out."

He pulls me down next to him, drapes his arm across my shoulder. "Of course, you can, Kel."

He stands, gives me hug. He steps back and straightens his tie, grins before running out the door to his sister's car. "I'll call you after church."

Suddenly, the house is quiet, still. I shower, check my email, write a blog post about my moving progress. I load the cats into their crates, carry them out to the Uhaul parked in the driveway. I climb into the driver's seat, start the engine. I follow the directions I was given to 95 and carefully merge onto the highway. I follow all signs leading me to New York City. In an hour or so I crest the Triboro Bridge and get my first clear view of the skyline. I shake my head, take a breath. All of my life, all of my 26 years, I've wanted to arrive in this city with my belongings in tow, I've wanted to Move. In. I realize today - November 6th 2005 - I'm doing it.

My father meets me outside of my apartment building, one of the few friends I have in the city comes over to help me unload the truck. The three of us carry box after box up the stairs, until hours later, my friend has to leave. My father and I continue to unload, navigating our way up stairs with a couch, a bed, and heavy furniture. Once the truck is finally empty we get cleaned up and walk down the block to get a pizza. We order a large pie with every topping you can imagine, from Boston Pizza. Irony.

After our dinner of somewhat lousy pizza, Dad stays on the couch watching sports, drinking a beer. Too tired to look for bedsheets, I pull out my sleeping bag, conveniently thrown on a pile of boxes. I turn off all of the lights in my bedroom. Beyond the muted sounds of ESPN in the next room I am surprised by how quiet the city feels. I stare out the window at the view of the Manhattan skyline. I close my eyes, say a prayer, then crawl into bed, exhausted.

******

A few weeks ago, when I was out in California visiting my brother, he and I were chatting over pizza and beers one night. He mentioned a friend of his who had recently moved to Europe. "I think she needed a push, someone to tell her to just do it." He explains. "And you know, Kel, I told her the story about you - going to London on your own, then backpacking on your own. I brag about you doing that a lot. People are always impressed."

I smiled, thanked Stephen, paused before speaking.

"You know, sometimes when I stop and think about it, I can hardly believe that I did that myself. On my own. But I did. Just like when I went to New York. I sometimes can't believe I did that either, that I pushed myself like that. That I survived the goods and the bads of that. But I did. Whether those ideas were crazy or not, I did them."

******

In my life some anniversaries will always be more important than others. Still, I will always count the ones that remind me of strength, of hope, of risk. It's a nice feeling, those moments when you realize you're just as strong as you once wished and hoped you would be.