Wisconsin to Oregon to Wisconsin: a love story and such

I’ve done some math.

It’s been 87 days since the last time I set out for a carefree run. The last time I took that initial step with no idea that my pelvis was about to crack. It’s been that long since I could simply get dressed, put on my shoes, and do the one thing I’m pretty good at.

In nearly 90 days, I haven’t once set out for a run that didn’t end within a half mile because of massive ouch. That was the last time I’ve even run in Bend. I’ve spent three perfectly beautiful months in a perfectly beautiful locale without running a step.

EIGHTY-SEVEN DAYS.

Memmmm’ries.

So I feel like I must preface the rest of this post by stating it’s been 87 days since I’ve had an outlet of any kind for my many, excessive thoughts and feelings. I either run them out or I spew them out in a blog post.

So here are some words. YOU ARE WELCOME.

So, I’m leaving Bend, right? We’ve discussed this. That’s huge. Remember all the hemming and hawing I did all those months back when deciding whether to take the leap to move west? To be honest, it took a lot less when deciding to leap back to Wisconsin.

Wisconsin is home.

I moved to Bend for love. Of myself. That was a tough move. I left behind my family and my best friends. I felt selfish. Any time I posted pictures of the adventures I got to have, I felt a twinge of guilt.

Yes. Yes, I was enjoying myself while my mom sat home gutted because her youngest child moved 2,000 miles away. Yes it was amazing. It was for me. 

I needed all of that. I needed to love me.

All my life I’d never done anything big and scary. Not anything real, anyway. Not on my own. I felt so tethered to safety and comfort. My parents moved out of Wisconsin before I did, and even they just went six miles away over the border to Illinois. I felt terrified to abandon the routine of my life. Routine is cozy and warm.

I moved to Bend just for me. I needed time for me and experiences for me. And, having been this far away from everything I know, half of that time unable to run, I’ve had a lot of time with me. Some people need “me time.” I, apparently, gave myself me life.

Moving to Bend forced me to cut that chord and find a new normal and form a new routine and discover whether I could hack it without the influence of cozy and warm.

One could argue that I couldn’t hack it because I’m returning to Wisconsin, back into the cozy and warm arms of familiarity. Or one could argue that I could because now I’m making just as scary of a leap, leaving behind this new world for another with no guarantees.

I will argue that I’m going to do whatever I want, so your argument is invalid.

I’m moving back to Wisconsin for love. Not love of me this time, but love of him. I’m ready to move back to Wisconsin for love because I gave myself enough time with me to figure out who I am, what I want, what love is, what love isn’t (this is an important lesson, friends, learn it), and how I want to spend my life.

Right now I can look outside and see mountains. But I’d rather look outside and see his car parked in front. Or wander into the kitchen to make dinner we can eat together on the couch. Or book a trip to visit Bend with him because Bend isn’t going anywhere. Bend and mountains will always exist. But connecting to another person is something that doesn’t come about every day.

I follow my heart everywhere I go. My heart is giant and vast, and it leads me on adventures everywhere I go, so I accept that. It’s also pretty reasonable most of the time. 

So my time in Bend is dwindling. Forty-five days left, to be exact. Please note that is exactly half the amount of days since I’ve followed my vast, giant heart on a run, dammit. But I digress. The good news is, by the time I’m home, I will hopefully be running again, too.

Wisconsin. Home. Family. Friends. Love. My person. Running.

Is there an option other than yes? Nope.

See you in September, Wisconsin.