Comfort

In LA, I was everything but comfortable. My heart was perpetually racing as I weaved through traffic, late for an open mic in Burbank, where I’d perform five minutes of mediocre stand up comedy and bomb. My red 2015 Toyota Yaris was peppered with Hi-Chew candy and Nature Valley Granola Bar wrappers. In between my seats , you could find old dirty spoons with dried peanut butter flaking off the concave metal from times I ran out of my house and a peanut butter lollypop was the only food I had time to prepare.

Any close analysis of my post college, pre-pandemic life—the aforementioned inside of my car, the twenty (maybe thirty) open tabs on my laptop’s web browser, the grease in my hair, the sleepless bags under my eyes—would, well, first probably repulse you, but second, convince you of how little I prioritized comfort back then. I was filthy and disorganized, and I knew it was disgusting, but it wasn’t like I was one of those hoarders on HGTV who was in ignorant denial of my swamp. I knew it was gross, but I told myself it was all at the cost of big dreams.

Letting go of big dreams is bittersweet. It’s, of course, sad. Especially if you’ve had that dream or vision of yourself for a long time, and you’re finally letting it go. But it’s also a relief. Now you’re not tethered to it, no longer bringing it with you wherever you go. Often, we don’t know when it happens—when our dream stops being ours. And that’s okay. And it’s also okay to leave it unceremoniously and abruptly. You can leave it wherever—in a coffee shop, on the side of the road. It doesn’t matter. Best not to dwell or spend too much time watching a former self slip away. By the time you’re watching her disappear, she’s already long gone.

My car is very clean now.