The Cocoon Sucks

The Cocoon Sucks

I had a really nice, cushy life. Up until a month ago, I had a great apartment on a waterfront park in a swanky neighborhood in Dallas. I was surrounded by friends and family that love me. I had a damn cushy job where I essentially had enough personal and emotional capital to run my department of one pretty much how I saw fit. I had a regular yoga studio and a meditation center where we had weekly brain trust time. In five days, I am leaving everything and everyone I care about to go live on a boat.

I’ve said more goodbyes in the last week than I care to talk about. I’ve got a couple of more important ones to go. You know, I thought I’d be all chipper about it. I thought I’d feel excited that my life was about to blast me out of the cannon into the wild blue yonder. I thought I’d be able to lounge on the good choices and good planning we’ve done over the last two years, confident in my path. I don’t feel confident today. I just feel sad. Like I’ve ripped the rug out from under my own feet.

I need to take it back. I want all my stuff back. I want my job back. I take it all back. I’ll give the boat back, just let me stay in the cocoon! It’s warm and comfortable here. I like it. It’s cozy and safe. I’ll be wet and tired and incompetent on a boat. I don’t know how to change the oil in a diesel engine! I don’t know how to stand watch or cook underway! What was I thinking?

I’m sad. I’m scared. I’m excited. I’m worried…I practice. Breathe. Feel my butt in the chair. The air on my skin. Breathe. I breathe in. Exhale. I breathe out.

I bought myself a blank-page journal that I’m calling my “yearbook” that I’m asking everyone to sign. So when I’m feeling lonely out there I can read kind words from people that care. So, when I’m wet and salty and tired and feeling less like Evel Knievel and more like Artax, I’ll have a little piece of my cocoon to cuddle up with. I’m not reading the entries until after I move onto the boat. I may never leave if I read them now.

A friend asked me today if I was ready. And, I told him, “whether I’m ready or not is immaterial. We’re leaving in five days.” I’m squeezing out of my cocoon, ready or not. I can feel it. You know how I can tell? My chest hurts.


PS: Yes, I know there’s a difference between a cocoon and a chrysalis.  Thanks for signing my yearbook.