I’ve been kicking around for twenty-six years now, and it’s been okay. Maybe something approaching good. Even the parts where it’s been bad or hard or sad or miserable are worth how things are now, which is pretty great. Still, it’s strange to think of all of the things I’ve experienced and seen and done: Many of them seem so far away. My hands have clasped so many others, in darkened movie theaters and backseats of cars and in parks. My heart has raced, and my head has spun, and my feet have carried me here and there. I have browsed used bookstores in Australia and played Scrabble on mountaintops and swam naked in lakes. I have passed days in silence and cried for myself and for strangers more times than I could ever hope to count.

I have driven away without looking back. I have worn my heart on my sleeve. I’ve dipped my toes into the Pacific and felt whole. I’ve filled dozens of journals with silly observations and hurt feelings and my own truths. I’ve read a lot of books; I haven’t read enough books. I’ve wondered when—if things would ever come together for me. I have given myself over to my whimsies. I’ve written one very bad novel, and made countless bad jokes, and endured awkward silences like you wouldn’t believe.

Maybe it’s terribly cliche, but I feel like everything—all of it—has brought me to this moment. It really feels like I’m on the brink of something big. I’m happy, and I’m ready for what’s coming my way, even if I’m not entirely sure what that is.