Be careful what you wish for, they say. I don’t think they mean it because when you finally get almost all of the things you’ve wished for, you don’t really know what to do with yourself, but that is very much my current 2022 experience. It’s the best kind of complaint to have.

I’ve never been a prolific writer even when my life was its most exciting or full of motion. Even then, every three months was lucky. Writing for myself is a separate category, one that’s much better maintained (and never shared). I journaled steadily from halfway through my freshman year to my first quarter of college at UC Santa Barbara, and then on and off through about ten different notebooks up through today. I can picture at least three notebooks I have on the go right now, haunting me from various drawers and book bags spread throughout the house.

But lately I haven’t felt the need to write, which is weird. I don’t like it. So in the same way you’re supposed to push through the unpleasant part of a workout (read: all of it) because it’s good for you, I’m going to push past this and write anyway.

My job has been fantastic. I’m still very much in what is probably a honeymoon period, but I think most people that have worked career retail and manage to change directions probably have an extended honeymoon period once they land something new. Perhaps one that lasts years. I’m still in awe of so much about my daily life: the view when I pull off the freeway and turn towards the rolling base of the Santa Cruz Mountains, more often than not half-draped in a greying shawl of mist; walking past a name plate with my name on it and sitting down at a desk that is my desk; spending time reading academic papers and researching community partners; rolling onto a gravel parking lot and walking past greenhouses beneath shady, mid-stretch oak trees. Honestly, the only way this job could be better is if it was somewhere in England. Suffice it to say, my honeymoon period is going nowhere.

I used to be pretty shoulder-shrug about living in San Jose, but I think I’ve officially become a fan. Aaron and I have tracked down a favorite taqueria, a favorite burger place, a favorite barbeque place – though what eluded us until very recently was a favorite Vietnamese place. Aaron loves pho and I love bún so finding one has been a mission. The last one we tried is the highest contender thus far, and I have developed a wild affection for their Thai iced tea. The cheapest gas in the area happens to be next door, and it’s right off 280, so I have on more than one occasion stopped by the restaurant after filling up just to get an iced tea to go. It’s not the healthiest of habits, but as I stated (and was seconded several times) on my Instagram, good Thai iced tea is the nectar of the gods. I’m not about to deny myself nectar of any kind these days.

Nobody here will remember this, because I wrote it about two and a half blogs ago, but one of the other best things about living in San Jose is how close it is to Sacramento. It’s not right up in it, and it’s just far enough to give me space to live my own life and to have a bunch of other stuff going on (middle school me would probably be mystified by both my Bay Area affinity and 408 area code). I appreciated this on a level the first time I lived here, but now that I have a job that’s a little less involved (and takes that much less energy), I truly love that I can get to Sacramento and back in the same day. I even love that it takes two hours because it reminds me that I don’t mind those two hours in the car and that reminds me of how much I’m like my dad in that way. He never minded going for a drive. In many ways, I think driving was his happy place. Sure, the two hour delay on the day isn’t the best, but I have genuinely come to enjoy those two hours that I get to myself each way.

I re-read something I wrote during my Peak England life – those precious, golden, pre-COVID days from 2018 to early 2020 that I did not appreciate nearly enough at the time – and was reminded of how much I love to love the things I love. And if I could wish anything for people, especially in these nonstop difficult times, it is to find things that you love to love. I waxed poetic about it at the time (I was having a Richard III moment), but the truth of my medieval-based passion remains. I don’t think that anyone can be truly healthy without having something to care about. And I think that’s part of where my lack of writing right now comes from. I care about a whole lot right now, but it’s not as introspective anymore. I definitely shared my life in England with people (so many amazing people), but I also did a lot of my solitary-ing that I did throughout a lot of my twenties. Now here I am, living a shared life, and I need to be intentional about making time to write. It doesn’t come as naturally as it did when it was my go-to day off activity. But I think it’s really important for me to start prioritizing again. Because I love how much I love writing.

I think my nest-y vibes have overtaken that up to this point. (They stepped right up to the plate when I was clearly done sorting out my Roots feels – happy one-year anniversary to that unintentionally life-changing post, by the way!) Why be writing when I can be out at Goodwill or a consignment store or Antiques Colony or visiting Sacramento? Sure, the house is definitely not finished (stares off into the distance, hoping that if I concentrate hard enough, the sofa that I hate will spontaneously burst into flames and make room for a beautiful replacement sofa from Albany Park or West Elm or Sabai Design). And sure I love visiting with my family (love you guys even though I don’t think you read this). But these words that I’m typing? I love them too.

So let’s make some room.