I’m boarding my upgraded first-class seat home today, swapping out seat 21A for a bit more comfort (at least there is one perk of this job).  But the view is still the same—30,000 feet of distance between where I am and where I’m going next. And honestly, that distance feels bigger than any flight path.

Things are getting real serious, real fast. I came to Florida to figure out where my future landing spot might be, to find a new place to plant roots. But once again, my job hijacked the trip. Back-to-back calls, last-minute crises, the usual corporate swirl.

And yet…there was progress.

Productive meetings. Glimmers of possibility. Steps that actually felt like moving forward, like maybe all the hustle is about to pay off. 

Then, just when I was starting to feel like a LinkedIn success story, a new villain showed up. There’s always one, lurking in the outskirts and this time, heartbreakingly, it was someone I thought was an ally. They managed to inject doubt and uncertainty into the very progress I’d been so proud of. Like a plot twist I didn’t see coming.

It rattled me. It shook my confidence in this role and this path. But here’s the thing: I’m not giving up. I’ve decided to fight to keep it on track, because I know this move isn’t just about my job. It’s about finding a place that fits the woman I’ve become, not just the work I do. And hey, I’m nothing if not persistent! Some might say stubborn, but I’m sticking with persistent.

So I did what I could to steady myself:

I found a little restaurant on the east coast, right on the water, and sat down for a solo dinner. I watched the Atlantic waves roll in and let the ocean remind me that no matter how messy life feels, the tide still shows up. I ordered two dirty martinis: one for the day I’d survived, and one for the day ahead. I gave myself permission to exhale, maybe for the first time in days. And then I gave myself the small miracle of almost 10 hours of sleep, a gift I usually reserve for holidays.

Now, I’m back on the mission: six days left to close out this chapter of my life. Six days to figure out how to sell, pack, or dump what’s left in a house that still feels like home, even if I know it’s not mine anymore.

Nearly a dozen trips to Goodwill. At least four dump runs. I’ve let go of so much already…years of clutter, decades of memories, and an embarrassing number of holiday decorations. But what’s left? That’s the hard stuff. The pieces of my life that are trickier to figure out, harder to part with, and nearly impossible to pack without knowing the destination.

And that’s the thing, there’s still no destination defined.

But I’m choosing to see that as possibility, not paralysis.

After all, if I can handle the chaos of work and the mystery of where I’ll land, I can handle what’s ahead.

I’ll always hold onto the Restoration Hardware dining table in my mind, the laughter around it, the chaos of generations squeezed together, the tradition of prime rib on Christmas Eve (courtesy of Costco, of course). I will find a new gathering table soon enough. And Costco’s prime rib will keep our bellies and our holiday spirit intact, no matter where we end up.

So here I am, in first class, flying home.

Six days left. Still no destination defined.

But I’m committed to this move, to this moment, and to myself.

Still flirting with my future.

Still scared.

Still prone to over-packing and overthinking, but also, ready to create something new.

Because once I close the door behind me for the last time on Friday, my faithful furry friend and I will head to a friend’s cottage for the first week of this new beginning; hoping it brings a bit of rest, a chance to reduce the stress, and the space to truly start flirting with a happier future.