comfort zones

comfort zones

by megan keane

I grew up in a yellow house on a dead-end road with a slanted roof and a bright pink room full of windows.

In 2009, we moved away and rented it out.

It’s been 10 years and I’m still convinced I’ll purchase it from my parents to raise my own family.

I dated my best friend for two and a half years, more like four we were just too nervous to commit.

In 2018, we broke up. It’s been five months and, although we’ve shared two tearful goodbyes, I’m still convinced he’s meant to be in my life, that our paths will connect again.

I travel to Guatemala each March and built a support system and a home despite the barrier of language and threat of concrete walls. In 2019, it’ll be my last collegiate trip there. It’s three months away, but I’m already anticipating my next trip. I think leaving will be easier knowing that tickets to return await me in my crowded inbox.

I feel a strong connection to the memorable things in my life, so strong that they’re hard to move on from. I keep high hopes that they’ll be with me forever because it helps me cope with the inevitable changes life brings me.

The idea that things aren’t over, or out of my life, keeps me sane. I’m not good at the goodbyes or tying up loose ends. I’m not good at growing out of my comfort zone.

I’m not scared of the future. I’m just scared of the process of getting there.