What We Hope A Good Friend’s Willing To Say

On any given day, I’m caught somewhere between wanting to take a trip with no return ticket and wanting to just go take a nap with no alarm to cut it short.

More and more I’m finding myself in that in-between space of “do the most” and “do the least.”

The near-constant dream of deleting myself from the internet is accompanied by the urge to scream or cry. Thinking of going for a run only leads to the realization that I have too much work to get through. It’s knowing I still have to find time to go food shopping and it’s the giant fucking sigh, clenched-jaw, and feeling of resignation that shows up every single time I remind myself to look for gratitude in the hope of taking the edge off of my stress.

Because it works.

Or rather, it used to work.

After a lot of speculation, I’m not convinced it’s doing anything other than keeping me stuck.

Caught between observing and participating.

Sometimes it feels like I’ve been living out of a suitcase for my entire life.

I just got back from visiting some friends. They’re getting ready to welcome their second kiddo and it felt like a good time to see each other before life gets even crazier. A band we like was playing a small-ish, dive-bar-styled venue near where they live, so I packed my bags and we turned it into a weekend.

The day of the concert, we got there early and managed to grab two seats at the back bar so we could order some food before the show. Each of us hung our rain jacket on one of the hooks under the bartop and got a burger.

He and I started working for the same company 10 years ago and have maintained a close friendship since. The day after we first met, we spent an entire weekend together in Montana on a work trip. The non-working hours of that weekend involved splitboarding, crashing a college graduation party, and one very hazy Afroman concert.

In the time since, we’ve both moved across state lines more than once. He got married, bought a house, and had a kid.

And I got sober.

Chomping on another fry from my plate, I glanced around at the sea of short-sleeve-button-downs, graphic tees, five-panel hats, piercings, and tattoos.

“Is this just my version of wearing a letterman jacket and reliving the glory days?” I asked.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately: the difference between living life while looking forward, or glancing backward over your shoulder. And it’s making me question whether I’m observing or participating.

Am I evaluating or engaging?

Searching for certainty.

From our old-guy-perch in the back of the concert venue, my friend and I are talking about how I’ve been feeling sort of stuck. I tell him it’s like I shelved an entire life when I moved to Vermont five years ago, and now I’m wondering if I’ve just been swimming against the current the whole time since.

He nodded and mentioned how Vermont seems to have a lot of the same ingredients that I liked from other places I’ve lived.

“I didn’t think I’d be here this long” I said, then added “I kind of thought it would be temporary.” With a sigh, I turned toward him and admitted that even though it has those things, I didn’t make an effort or put myself out there when I got here because I figured it was more of a pit stop. Watching him mull that over, I’m thinking of snowboarding and the life I left behind but never truly let go of.

There’s this rock feature at Jackson Hole Mountain Resort, where I used to work, that people love to jump off of called Mikey Likes It (myself included). It’s also a great spot for benchmarking someone’s ability level. As a student, it lets them feel what it’s like to ride more advanced terrain in a relatively controlled environment without all that much consequence. And as an instructor, it would always tell me a lot about how the student actually operates. I’d watch their body language before it was their turn to drop. I’d listen to what questions they’d ask and the way they’d ask them—to the words they chose, and the ones they’d leave out. And, after coaching them where needed, I’d watch to see how much of it they’d implement.

As humans, fear pushes against us. It makes us hesitate, which is why scared snowboarders lean too far back and lose their balance when landing. But training yourself to respond to that fear differently is possible over time. Mikey Likes It was always a helpful test in that regard. It’s how I measured my own readiness, too. Coming back from an injury? Lets hit Mikey’s and see how I do.

More than a way to measure skill, Mikey Likes It is ultimately a way of gauging the willingness to lean into uncertainty with confidence.

It’s an indicator of commitment.

Learning to commit.

So here I am, visiting my friend and enjoying the show.

Taking his eyes off the stage, he turns to look at me and asks if it’s me or the place itself. Is it Vermont? So, as I’m sitting there, I’m forced to face the fact that I’ve been trying to keep one foot in my old life and one in the new life I’ve stepped into.

“Maybe there’s just too much scar tissue here” I tell him.

And I know there’s a lot of it, but I’ve not yet been willing to consider whether it’s insurmountable. In fact, I’ve been quite proud of my growth on that front during these past five years and I tell him so.

I tell him how, on my way down from Vermont, I had to pass through Massachusetts and how different it’d been from when I’d done that after first moving back to the east coast. Back then, while stuck in a strikingly similar rush-hour situation, my chest had completely seized in the time it took to go from one exit to the next. That was the first time I’d been back in the area since... probably during college? I told him how I remember thinking I was going to crack a tooth with how hard I’d been clenching my jaw.

This time, in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the same stretch of highway, I was shocked by the notable absence of any chest-tightening or jaw clenching while passing those exits. Commuting through traffic there used to be a fact of life for me. I traveled that road all the time growing up; like, every other weekend. For many of those years I’d been a passenger, yet somehow it was worse once I was old enough to drive myself. Something about having autonomy and still taking that exit never sat right.

From my spot at the bar, I look up at my friend and follow his gaze to the row of drinks being made by the bartender in front of us. With a shake of the head, he turns my way, grins, and goes “hey—when’s the last time you had a Red-Bull-Vodka?” After taking a minute to think about it, I start nodding and laughing while telling him the rather embarrassing story.

I don’t miss everything about my “old life,” but it’s kind of cool to feel… compassion(?) for my younger-self rather than the animosity I used to harbor when thinking about it.

Adding constraints.

Something I love about my friend is his blunt honesty. It’s direct but kind, and I wish more people were like him in that regard.

After the concert ended, we couldn’t help but to chuckle… it’d been a good long while since either of us had been out so late. Then, on the drive home from the show, he pressed.

“If we’re still having this same conversation two years from now, and you haven’t moved by then, we’ll know the problem’s you and not Vermont.”

“Wh—”

I stop myself.

Well… shit.

Deep breath.

“What makes you say that?”

He looked over at me. It seemed like he’d already thought about this and might be pausing more for effect than to gather his thoughts.

“Somebody had to give you a timeline” he said.

Then he added, “And you weren’t.”

I kept my eyes on the road, but he could probably tell I was struggling to think my way out of the logic trap he’d hit me with.

“You build systems better than anyone I know… Time to use your PM skills and add some constraints.”

I felt my eyebrows uncoil while letting out a long, gruff sigh through my nose.

Shit.

He was absolutely right.

Endurance ≠ thriving.

After a shorter night’s sleep than usual, my friend and I say our goodbyes over coffee and I weave my way home to Vermont.

The drive is long but the trip was really, really good. We didn’t “do the most” but we definitely didn’t “do the least” either. I’m sure I’ll still feel the urge to delete myself from the internet from time to time but I don’t feel like I’m going to scream or cry today, so that seems like a win.

I’m still tired, though.

When I was a kid, I was always on the move. I always seemed to have a rotating collection of extra stuff to bring with me, too. Like, going to school wasn’t just going to school; it was going to school with my backpack full of books, my saxophone, and a gym bag for football workouts (before and after school). On the weekends it was a duffle to go to my dad’s house, or a boot-bag and snowboard gear if we were going to my grandparent’s place. I never unpacked my bags. My mom always unpacked hers, though. My cousins did, too, but not me.

Today, it’s just my work backpack and a carry-on sized suitcase.

I like coming back to my own space.

Closing the door behind me, I come to a stop in my entryway. I suck in a huge breath and shake my head. I’m trying to let my shoulders drop, but grimace at how little they move. Until recently, I’d always thought of myself as someone who thrives in transition. Exhaling, I’m reminded that I’m just someone who’s learned how best to endure it; and that’s not the same thing.

Sure, it can be hard to hear… but a good friend, like mine, is willing to say it anyway.

I might be the problem after all.

onward.

If you enjoy reading my writing, I publish short reflections like this each day as part of my daily column, Kickturn.

Sign up to get it here.