Because now that the immediate threat of death has passed, my brain decides it's a great time to spiral about everything else going on in my life.
Starting with the email I got yesterday.
TechFlow Solutions would like to extend an offer...
I should be thrilled. It's a good job offer. Great, even. A senior developer position with full benefits, stock options, and the kind of salary that would make my parents actually take an interest in what I do for a living.
I'd be working on the company’s flagship productivity app, contributing to something millions of people use every day.
I'd also be in meetings. So many meetings. Following someone else's vision, building someone else's dream, and fitting my creativity into neat little boxes labeled "brand guidelines" and "user experience protocols."
The thought makes my skin itch.
I love what I do now, especially the freedom of it. Waking up with an idea and just...building it.
Last month, I created an app that helps people find dog-friendly hiking trails based on their dog's size and energy level. It’s completely random, and totally unnecessary, but it has five thousand downloads and counting.
Before that, it was a recipe app that lets you input ingredients you have and get meal ideas based on your specific dietary restrictionsanda signature chef’s cooking style.
Are these going to make me rich? Probably not. But they'remine. Every line of code, every design choice, every weird creative decision that makes users send me messages like "This is exactly what I needed in my life and I love it."
My parents don't get it. They're currently in Thailand—or maybe Vietnam? Somewhere in Southeast Asia—doing the digital nomad thing they started after they sold their marketing firm. "You should leverage your skills," Mom had said duringour last video call, which she'd squeezed in between a beach yoga session and a business dinner. "Build something scalable."
They mean well. I know they do. But there's something ironic about two people who are literally on the other side of the world from their daughter lecturing me about responsibility and conventional career paths.
At least they're together, I guess. They have each other, even if work always came first—before family dinners, before my school plays, before pretty much everything.
I stare into the fire, the quilt pulled tight around my shoulders.
Somewhere, in some Thai restaurant or Vietnamese hotel, my parents are probably working through Christmas Eve, barely noticing the holiday.
Meanwhile, I'm here. Alone in a mountain cabin, hiding from a blizzard, trying to decide if I should take a job I don't want just because it's what successful people are supposed to do.
"Merry Christmas to me," I mutter.
My laptop is in my bag by the door, but there's no WiFi out here. No way to work on the meditation app I've been tinkering with—the one that pairs breathing exercises with customizable nature sounds because I got annoyed that every meditation app uses the same generic beach waves or rain sounds.
Some people want to breathe to the sound of a crackling fire, or a river. Or that specific type of wind that sounds like it's moving through pine trees.
See? This is what I mean. These weird, oddly specific ideas that pop into my head and won't let go until I build them. How am I supposed to do that while sitting in a corporate office, attending daily collabs trying to please some CEO who has nothing in common with the people he sells products to?
The wind howls outside, rattling the windows. I should probably be more worried about the whole "stranded in ablizzard" situation, but I kinda like being forced to stop. To sit still…and decide anything right now.
Tomorrow, I'll make it to Sadie's rented cabin. We'll have that Christmas I've been looking forward to. I'll tell her about the job offer, and she'll give me that look she always gives me when I'm overthinking things, and she'll say something wise like "What does your gut tell you?" or "Stop being a dumbass and just do what makes you happy."
I miss her. Miss having someone in my corner who actually gets it.
After her brother Jayce and I broke up six months ago—his choice, his timing, his “I need to focus on my DEA training in Virginia”—most of our friends went radio silent.
Not Sadie, though. She texted me the next day:
You're still my friend. He's my brother, but you're my person. Nothing changes.
It had made me cry into my burrito bowl at lunch.
The truth is, I'd been relieved when Jayce ended things. Not really heartbroken, or devastated, just...relieved.
Which probably says everything that needs saying about our relationship. We'd been together for a little over two years, and I'd spent most of it feeling like I was trying to fit into a role that didn't quite match who I was.
