Haven

Dear Haven,

Tomorrow will be four months since I left you, and I just realized I never said goodbye. Leaving you was swift and chaotic and noisy and lovely. Leaving you was a long time coming and, when it finally happened, there were too many questions and unknowns to be able to gracefully say farewell. Deciding to leave you was easily the most uncertain I’ve ever been about any decision in my life, and goodbyes were a little too concrete for all the questions swirling around in my head right then.

It wasn’t you; it was me. I was ready for a change. I was looking for something smaller than Nashville, something I wouldn’t be quite so scared of, but that I could still move in. I was ready for a challenge. My work was sometimes routine, sometimes terrifying, and something I was ready to move on from. And I really wanted stars. I wanted to be able to stand in my driveway and stare at the sky and see something other than reflections of city lights and airplanes flying overhead.

It started with a new job. It was the job I didn’t apply for, pretty much the only job left in the South that I hadn’t applied for, and it somehow found its way to my trembling hands. It wasn’t what I expected. It wasn’t what I was looking for. There were lots of questions and pros and cons lists and weird rants about details that might not have been so important. But I chose it.

And then came the new house. It was the house I didn’t actually go look at, pretty much the only available house in Huntsville I hadn’t gone to see. We crept around it and peered in the cracked blinds like creepers and caught sight of a bright blue bathroom, lots of grey walls, a kitchen you could dance in, and more space than I needed. So I chose it.

And then I got sick. Turns out I had mono, strep, and ear infections. Thank God for friends and family who step in to help when you can’t do it on your own.

Haven, our first goodbye was loud. It was filled with laughter and friends and vacuuming corners and doughnuts and a moving truck as big as you. I drove away feeling a little bit sick and very much loved.

Haven, our second goodbye was a lot quieter. It was a week later, and I was still wracked with uncertainty about the whole thing. I was still sick. I’d had my first real car wreck on my way up (thank you forever to Sheree for stopping to make sure I was okay). But you very quietly and gently disengaged. I’m forever thankful for that.

I felt the memories in your sunny walls. I heard echoes of laughter and dancing and courage and friends and family. But mostly I felt a quiet hope. There was hope for my quiet, tired heart. You gently pushed me back out and to the other house I’d moved in to.

Haven, it didn’t feel right for so long, this new house. It wouldn’t tell me its name. I didn’t know what it would be, and that was so unsettling. But I’ve got it now. Every other place I’ve lived has been named after a safe place – The Burrow, The Hermitage, Haven – but this doesn’t feel the same. There is more adventure in this house than that.

Don’t worry, Haven, The Wardrobe is going to take care of me. (That might be a comment on how many clothes and shoes I have). It’s a launching point. It’s the safe place before getting thrown out into my new Narnia. It’s a readying point. It’s home. And it has the most beautiful, obnoxious bathrooms ever.

I can see the stars from my driveway. They’re even better from my backyard.

Haven, my new job is challenging. I cry a lot more, and I’ve had to learn about self-care. I’m still trying to figure out how to leave the weight of cancer and death at the door, but I’m getting better at it. I’m so thankful to be working at an amazing hospital with beautiful, supportive, crazy, and fantastic co-workers. I no longer live in constant dread of my next shift. I have the time and space (sometimes) to walk with my patients through some really terrifying days.

Working in Oncology is heavy, and I was very afraid of that weight when I started, but I’m working with incredible people who believe in sharing the load and meeting horror with laughter. They’re teaching me about community and sharing and that an extra cup of coffee on a hard day makes anything possible and a little bit brighter.

Being closer to school is helpful. I like not having to drive two hours each way whenever I have class. I still have no clue why I willingly chose to put myself through the horrors of grad school, but here I am, struggling through and distracting myself from looming tests by writing goodbye letters to an old apartment.

Oh and Haven, remember Daniel? He’s that boy who would show up all the time and make me laugh, the one who brought so much joy to your walls and made me dance. I’m a lot closer to him now too, which is helpful cause I’m mad in love with him.

I don’t miss you, Haven, but I miss the people I left behind. I’ll always love you for being so tiny and the perfect place to hide, but it’s time to officially say goodbye.

Things have changed, Haven, and they’re looking up. I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye earlier, but I needed some time to find my feet. And in doing that, I’ve found community, a job I love, a house that keeps getting better, and so much joy.

Thank you for keeping me safe in one of the hardest times of my life. Thank you for sheltering me and being there when I needed to hide. Thank you for letting me go gracefully when it was time to move on. I grew so much with you, and I will always cherish our time together, but I’m so happy to be where I am now.