I can’t… I can’t doany of it.
On my drive home alone, the road stretches out in front of me, dark and quiet. Headlights flicker in the rearview mirror, and I catch a glimpse of my reflection. My eyes are red and my face pale. I don’t recognize the man staring back at me as I pull into my driveway and park.
The house is silent, empty. I take a deep breath and step inside. It’s so big without her in it, it hurts. Every corner, every shadow, every object reminds me she’s not here.
My eyes land on her mug, sitting on the counter. The one she always used for coffee in the mornings. I pick it up and clutch it to my chest as my knees give out. I sink to the floor, and I just sit there. Grief is a living thing, gnawing at my chest, twisting my stomach into knots. Clutching the mug so tightly, I’m afraid it might break, I whisper her name, “Rosie…” And it shatters what’s left of me.
With tears streaming down my face, I sit on the floor, holding her mug, listening to the hollow echo of my heartbeat, wondering how anyone survives this kind of loss.
Because right now,I don’t think I can.
January 6th
Dear Nashville,
I’m here. You weren’t exactly welcoming, but I’m here.
The GPS in the rental car kept rerouting like it was actively trying to test my patience, and by the time I crossed into the city limits, my excitement was tangled up in a ball of nerves. You greeted me with heavy air and traffic that didn’t care that I came from a tiny one stoplight town. I half-expected some kind of sign… music drifting through the streets, a voice telling me I’d made the right choice, something… ANYTHING! Instead, there was construction, blinking lights, and the quiet realization that this was real. I wasn’t visiting. I wasn’t passing through. I had arrived.
My apartment is small, but it’s MINE. Third floor, slightly crooked stairs, and a front door that sticks unless you jiggle the handle and slam your shoulder into it just right. The walls are still bare, and the boxes full of what little I own are scattered across the floor. But there’s a window that lets in the afternoon sunlight, and when I sit on the floor with my back against the exposed brick wall, I can almost picture the life I’m about to build. I bought a cheap mattress, a thrifted table, and a plant I’m hoping I won’t kill. It’s not much, but it feels like a beginning.
So here I am, Nashville, standing in the middle of my own uncertainty. I don’t have everything figured out, and honestly, that TERRIFIES me. I don’t know which doors will open or how many will slam shut. I don’t know if I’ll succeed in the ways I imagine or fail in ways I can’t yet picture. But I do know I want more—a bigger life,louder dreams, and space to become as brave as the girl who convinced herself to leave small-town life behind.
I want mornings that feel purposeful and nights that feel earned. I want to meet people who don’t know my past, only my potential. I want to work hard, fall down, get back up, and learn who I am when no one is watching. I want a life full of mistakes and the stories they write to be worth telling.
So maybe you weren’t welcoming, Nashville. Maybe you don’t owe me anything. But I’m ready to earn my place here. I’m ready to grow into this city… One scary as hell step at a time.
January 22nd
Dear Big Bad City,
All right, you’ve made your point. I got it. I’m the little fish in the big pond.
It’s been two weeks, and I still haven’t managed to find a job. Not even a part-timegig that will give me a little something to keep me afloat while I figure out how the hell to survive. I’ve sent resumes, dropped by places, smiled through polite interviews, and yet… nothing. Well, nothing but a whole bunch of rejection.
What little money I brought with me is dwindling faster than I expected. Every meal, every bus ride, every tiny apartment convenience chips away at it, and I keep thinking about how long I can stretch it before it’s gone entirely. Some nights, I lie awake wondering if I made a mistake moving here. Maybe this big-city life isn’t for me after all.
I came here for opportunity, for adventure, and a chance to build something bigger than the life I was facing. But right now, the city is laughing at me. Like it’s saying, “Not so fast, little dreamer.” And honestly… I’m not sure how much longer I can keep trying to prove it wrong.
January 28th
Dear Momentum,
I think this is what you feel like… quiet, a little shaky, but finally moving.
Today, I signed up for college. I stared at the screen longer than I should have, convincing myself that one night class a week still counts. It does. I keep reminding myself of that. It’s not some dramatic full-time load with a shiny campus montage moment, but it’s a start, and right now I’m learning that starts matter. Tuesday nights. One classroom. One step closer to the version of me who finishes what she starts. Because I’m not giving up on me!
And then there’s the job. I still can’t quite believe it. A small bar on Demonbreun Street. It’s quaint… brick walls, low lights, and music that spills out onto the sidewalk, practically pulling customers inside. My first night, I tied my apron too tight and smiled too much, afraid I’d mess everything up. And I did. Well, at least a few orders. But the place hums with energy. Every night, there’s music. It’s raw, hopeful, and sometimes a little too off-key. But every person on that tiny stage feels like a mirror. Singers with guitars and tired eyes, voices full of stories they’re desperate to tell, and a dream they’re trying desperately to reach. People just like me, trying to carve out space in a city that doesn’t slow down for anyone.
I like watching from behind the bar. I like learning their names… their orders… their quirky pre-show rituals. It feels like being tucked into the heartbeat of something bigger than myself. When the music starts, I forget how overwhelming this city can be. I forget how new everything feels. For a few hours, I feel like I belong.
I still have moments where the loneliness sneaks up on me—late nights and too-quiet mornings. Then there’s the empty apartment that reminds me that, much like the rest of my life, I’m doing this on my own. But now there’s purpose and things holding me here…. A class to show up for. A job that needs me. An apartment that’s starting to feel like home.
I’m not where I want to be yet, but I’m closer than I was yesterday. And for the first time since I arrived, that feels like enough.
I stumble into the studio like gravity has doubled overnight, dragging my guitar case behind me like it’s full of lead instead of strings and wood. It bumps against the back of my heel with every staggered step. The door groans shut, sealing me in with the once-comforting smell of the recording booth. Today, it just smells like memories. Memories as noxious as the stale coffee, musk of sweat, and an old carpet soaked with years of spilled beer.
The lighthearted conversation between my bandmates dies upon my arrival. After dropping my case to the floor, I kneel beside it and flip the latch, feeling all their eyes on me. As I pull out my guitar, I glance up and find I wasn’t wrong. Four sharp, assessing gazes; each trying to figure out just how not okay I am today. My fingers fumble with the strap, clumsy and slow, as I work it over my head. When my thumb catches a string, it twangs too loud and very off-key. The sound ricochets through the room, raw and wrong, as everyone grimaces.
