Page 324

Climbing ladders just high enough to stay trapped.

Overpriced apartment.

Overpriced drinks.

Overpriced meals.

Consumerism wrapped in ambition, sold as success.

It consumed me.

And somewhere along the way, I forgot the things that ever made me feel whole.

The ocean.

Salt air.

Sunset.

Music.

Freedom.

Not financial status—financial freedom.

Not prestige—peace.

I don’t want slide decks.

I don’t want last-minute meetings.

I don’t want Jim pacing holes through the boardroom carpet while everyone pretends the numbers mean something.

I don’t want a 9-to-5 cage dressed up as a career.

I want sunburned shoulders.

Callused hands.

Water under my feet.

Music that doesn’t need approval.

So when I board the plane weeks later—condo sold, loose ends tied, notebook in my backpack—I don’t feel like I’m fleeing.

I feel like I’m stepping into my own life for the first time.

The Bahamas smell like salt and citrus and possibility.

I don’t rush anything.

I rent a small place near the water. Take work where I can. Learn the rhythms. Learn the names of the winds. Learn how little I actually need.

One afternoon, wandering with nowhere to be, I duck into a secondhand shop tucked between a dive bar and a bait store.

It’s dusty. Quiet.

And there it is.