The Lives We Won't Live

I sit on the countertop wearing soft leggings, a thick bathrobe, contemplating the many lives I could but will never have.

I could be drinking water instead of the green tea that just burned my tongue. I could be living in my parent’s house, saving money, instead of this $1,300 apartment built on the edge of Santa Monica’s city lines. I could have chosen to pursue accounting, or law school, or a freelance business instead of my nonprofit, 9-5 office job. I could have said no to invitations when I first moved to LA—chosen not to pursue friendships with the people that now mean the most to me. I could have never left my college boyfriend. I could have never downloaded the dating app that introduced me to my current one.

I could have never given up on the book I wrote as a teenager. I could have pursued self-publishing. I could have never chosen writing as my career path—I could have prioritized a career that led me to an impressive salary instead of a passion that might never see success.

I could have filled my closet with colors instead of blacks and greys. I could have chosen to get into bitcoin instead of Lifetime movies. I could have moved somewhere far out in the countryside. Saved money I spent on clothes and food toward more vacations. Spent my weekends volunteering in soup kitchens instead of driving back and forth between Santa Monica and my family home.

I like to write out what I imagine my dream life looking like whenever I’m facing a time when I find it hard to stay excited. Remind myself to prioritize the things I truly desire, invest my energy in the things that will transfer joy back to me. Tonight, in my leggings and my bathrobe, holding the mug of steaming green tea that burnt my tongue on the first sip, I curl my legs up on my kitchen countertop. Sit in silence with a notebook and pen.

What is it that I want? Are the paths I’ve taken leading me down roads I no longer want to be on?

Our lives are the culmination of a series of decisions—the ones we unconsciously make and the ones we painstakingly deliberate over. Every so often, I realize how many of my habits were formed without my consent. I realize how much energy I’ve been wasting in activities that do not serve me.

Sometimes erasing the unease is as simple as deciding to stop looking at social media. To wake up earlier in the morning and give myself more hours in the day. Sometimes it looks like changing the type of content I’m consuming, turning the self-help books in for a Bible, the heavy fiction in for something lighthearted.

Sometimes it’s much harder. Wondering if the passions that have driven me in the past still serve me. Wondering if my career path has taken a turn toward something I could want, but never dreamed about. Looking at the people in my life, the relationships I love, figuring out how to invest in each of them in the ways they deserve.

These choices, the easy and the difficult, will determine the direction of my life. The paths I don’t take will change what future opportunities open to me. It’s paralyzing, giving our choices this much power.

So I read through my notebook, read through the scenarios my life might been made of if I’d taken other paths.

But I feel no ounce of regret.

I could have chosen law school, but I never wanted to spend my days reading case studies. I could have chosen to live in my parents’ house, but I would never have known the joy of walking through my neighborhood down to the ocean. I could have decided not to be a writer, but I’m certain I would have found my way back to the blank page every day, in every life.

Our lives form through the choices we make, but not because we’ve made the wrong or right decisions. Our dreams shift and adapt to the paths we’re following, to the circumstances we’re handed.

At the top of my notebook, I write, Be present.

Present to the life I’m in. Present to the people I’m with. Present to the habits I form. Present to the good and to the bad. To the fear and to the joy. To the choices made and unmade. To the silent nights alone in my apartment, sitting on countertops, dreaming my way to the life I hope to live.

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The End of An Era: Saying Goodbye to Windrose

Hi friends,

Announcement (sounds so formal, doesn’t it?):

It's the end of an era.

I’ve decided that, after nearly 8 years of telling stories of navigating life, this season of Windrose is drawing to a close.

Even Here: Words for When You're Wandering

When I was 22 years old, I visited the desert for the first time.

A metaphorical desert, if we’re getting technical.

I was fresh out of college, starry-eyed and eager to begin my post-grad life. I had big ‘ole me-centered dreams: a shiny, brag-worthy PR job in the music industry! An apartment with an exposed brick wall that (somehow) would fit an upright piano! A committed relationship with a kind, goofy man!

I got exactly none of those things.

To summarize an entire year’s worth of emotion: I was devastated.

What is Home?

Late last night, I flew back into town after a week away, the city lights covering the Valley like a blanket of incandescent flowers. I’ve flown into Phoenix at least a dozen times at this point. Usually, I can identify a handful of landmarks, like my antenna-scarred South Mountain or the twinkling lights of the bridges spanning Tempe Town Lake.

Flying into Nashville, however, was always different.

I Don't Live Here Anymore

I recently returned to Nashville for the first time since moving to Phoenix five months ago.

Before my reunion, I often said that the word “home” could apply to both Nashville and Phoenix. Nashville is my home. Phoenix is my home. I could find that home-sweet-home feeling in both cities.

During my 8 days back, I frequented my old haunts. The brickwalled coffee shop still serves the meanest mocha in town. The hillside winery still proves to be a worthwhile spot to sip away a sunny Sunday afternoon. The hip burger joint still offers a lovely evening to dine with friends, new and old. The lime-green Mexican restaurant on the corner of Whitebridge still feels like a queso-soaked refuge.

There were many “stills,” but there were changes, too.

Why did you move?

A cardstock print sits propped against the lamp on my desk: a taupe watercolor swipe outlining a peakside Saguaro, the sun a tiny ring above. Beneath this minimalist illustration are these words in typeface: “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”

I happened upon this notecard-sized print on the way out of a shop last weekend, after already having completed another purchase. It was the last print of its kind in the pile. I had to have it. I returned to the cashier: “This one, too.”

You see, this verse has been a thread weaving through my story, simple words spoken by a prophet long dead, a passage of comfort I’ve returned to again and again since my pilgrimage to the desert four years ago, when I inked a cactus on my wrist.

The Good Old Days

Last week was National Margarita Day.

I did not, however, celebrate the holiday. Truthfully, I’ve yet to find THE Mexican place here in Phoenix. You know the one: gaudy decorations, cheap food, even cheaper margaritas.

But there’s a Mexican restaurant at the corner of Charlotte and Whitebridge in Nashville, TN.

You may have heard of it.

Witching Hour (or, Fighting Off Demons at 3 am with a Box Cutter)

Between the hours of 3 - 4 am, I find myself awakened by nothing in particular. The room is silent. There is no sound outside. No loud car horns. No dogs barking.

I’m upset.

I wish it was something other than just me. Then I could stop it. Nothing is to blame. It feels like moments have passed since I closed my eyes. The moments of a long dreamless sleep last about 4 hours.

10 Life Lessons This Cross-Country Move is Attempting to Teach Me

There are a few lessons life has attempted to teach me since my move — all things that I haven’t yet spiced up into a full essay, but deserve to be memorialized by my metaphorical pen nonetheless.

So I present a collection of lessons I’ve learned — and am still learning — in the last 3 months.

What Will Your Life Look Like?

Tomorrow marks 3 months.

Three months here, sharing a zip code with Saguaros.

“So how is Phoenix?” a friend asked me over the phone as I sat on my balcony beneath glowing string lights, a pour of raspberry wine in my hand. The sun was setting, painting the eastern mountains with rosy swipes of redemption.

How has Phoenix been these last three months?

What is it Trying to Tell You, if Only You’d Listen?

I went on a date recently. Two glasses of Riesling, pleasant conversation, and a perfectly amicable guy — it was an altogether fine evening.

However, I wasn’t interested in a second date.

Not because of any run-for-the-hills red flags. Not because I didn’t think he was cute. Not because we didn’t get along. I simply — wasn’t interested.

There’s no better way to explain it. No fear-based avoidance of the potential for a healthy relationship. No disdain for commitment that needs a heavy round of therapy to work through. Nothing deeper than the inner sense that a second date just wasn’t necessary.

But, I said yes to getting dinner again with him.

The Other Side of Yes

I’m a No Girl.

In many ways, this is a good thing. I’m able to confidently decline invitations that disinterest me.

“Want to go whitewater rafting?” No thank you, I’m comfy right here on the bank.

“Want to do a shot?” No thank you, I’ll take my liquor with lime juice and Triple Sec, plz.

“Want to try this carrot cake?” No thank you, Harry, I can’t eat gluten.

“Want to go to Broadway?” No thank you, I’d prefer to go to bed.

In many ways, however, being a No Girl originates less from personal boundaries and more from fear. Fear and I happen to be pretty tight; we talk on the daily. Fear has been the primary consultant for many of my life decisions, in fact.

A Song for Growth

A year ago, a friend of mine got a job at a well known tech company. He had been slogging through the interviews, and he finally got an offer. Obviously he deserved it. He was a hard worker, and his attitude for success and life was admirable to say the least. I knew he was beyond qualified.

But at the time, I was on a career path I couldn’t see myself being happy in. I had made the mistake of staying in the industry mainly for the money. Every month in the industry was a reminder of how much I did not want to stay. It created a nasty cycle of overthinking and career angst. Feelings of inadequacy and existentialism rooted themselves deep inside me. I couldn’t focus on anything and was utterly disconnected from the work I was doing.

I admit I wasn’t happy for him.

Life, DreamsAmanda BeadlescombFebruary 25, 2018FeaturedComment

The Lives We Won't Live

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