The alarm goes off at 6:30. I turn in my bed and moan into the pillow.
Ignore that alarm, says the voice in my head. You can stay in bed.
No, I can’t. I sit up and force my eyes open. I tap my phone to make it shut up, then glance over the room to find my suitcase waiting at the door.
I get up with the familiar feeling in my gut. The feeling that always visits me whenever I have to leave.
You don’t have to leave, reminds me the voice.
Oh yes, I do.
See, if I never forced myself to leave, I’d spend the rest of my life stuck inside a comfort zone that wasn’t even so comfortable anymore.
The air here, it’s just not enough to fill my lungs. I wish for something bigger. Better. Brighter.
“This should be enough,” people always tell me, pointing to my home, my family, my perfect job. As if they know anything about my needs.
“I’m done settling for enough,” I say to them, “when I know that there is so much more.”
I used to think it was a sin to ask for more. I used to think it was my duty to keep my head down and accept whatever landed at my feet. But my feet were not meant to step on this plain, boring ground. They were made to wander and every day spent on the predictable paved road makes them itch even more for the unknown wild path.
That’s why I ignore the rational voice and choose to listen to the part of me that’s a little reckless. I grab my suitcase and I’m out the door, not giving myself any time to rethink my decision or change my mind.
I make myself leave—against everyone’s advice and against the fear that’s stopped me way too many times—and I know I’ll thank myself later.