A Day at the Sea

I’m writing on the train, with brief interludes of glancing out the window to watch the cottonwood fly over the marshland. I’m traveling alone, yet I feel at ease with my Starbucks latte cradled between my knees as the train hums north, away from Boston.

I’ll be living in the city for at least another year. Renewing my lease felt like the right decision; I’ve grown to appreciate living alone, learning which podcasts to flip on when my apartment is too quiet as I chop vegetables or scrub the tiles in my shower. To my relief, I’ve encountered only a few bugs in my home, allowing myself to feel a tinge of self-pity that disappears as quickly as the swish of the tissue I use to squish the unwelcome guests. I’ve grown something valuable in the process of being on my own: self-trust.

Another year in Boston felt right. My friends are here, my job is here. But where will I be one year from now? I have a creeping concern that Boston has given me all that it can give, that it will soon be time for me to go somewhere new. Will I move back home to be closer to family? Will I risk moving to a new city? This morning, I watched a mom hold her daughter’s hand as they walked through the train station together, and all I could think was: “that’s all I want.” To be a mom (don’t you worry, not for a long time) and to be near my mom. But I’m puzzled by how where I am today (chronically single and 800 miles from Michigan) will ever lead me to that place, where I ultimately want to be.

But for at least one more year, Boston is home. And to address my fear of living a stagnant city life, I’m penciling in daytrips on the weekends. If I very well move away in one year, I’ll at least be comforted by the fact that I made the most of my time here.

Today, I’m going to Rockport, a few stops north of where I got off the train last weekend in Manchester-by-the-Sea. I almost didn’t go; none of my friends were free (I ran into the same problem today — I’m learning summer weekends are tricky if you don’t plan far in advance) and I wasn’t sure if taking a solo daytrip would bring me joy or immense sadness. But I had nothing to lose, so I brought my kindle, bought myself a coffee and sandwich for lunch, sunbathed by the ocean for a few hours, and felt one of the most grounding feelings I can feel: like myself.

After resting in the sun while smiling at the voices of a family building a sandcastle nearby, I decided to walk the shoreline. I tried to pay attention to the feeling of the sand between my toes, the frothy salt water lapping around my ankles. I paused to look at the ocean, admiring the open vista view dotted with sailboats afar. 

My mind flashed back to one year ago: I was standing on a cliff in Portugal, wearing a white sundress as the salty breeze tangled my wavy hair. My mom was standing next to me; we joined my dad on a work trip that wove itself into a post-graduation family vacation. I was so happy — the kind of happiness you’re nostalgic for, knowing your life will never quite be that simple again — but I was also scared, realizing my return to Boston meant starting a full-time job and flipping the page to an entirely new chapter of life.

Year-ago me stared at the ocean, appreciating that I was looking west at the Atlantic for the first time. I was so unsure of my future, knowing it wouldn’t be easy because, well, it’s never easy.

One year later in Manchester-by-the-Sea, I felt as though I was meeting the gaze of that old version of myself. I’ve continued to grow at the same job I was so worried to start. I’ve had tear-streaked goodbyes with best friends and warm hellos to new ones. I’ve woken up to days that feel like the ocean during a Nor’Easter and days when the water is as flat as a mirror. 

I smiled to myself and kept trekking on. The tide was coming in. It was time to go home.