The Amazon Cart is Full
I moved in and now my brain won’t shut up.
Not in a dramatic way. Just in that constant, low-grade hum of questions that don’t line up neatly. Like…
Is this exciting?
Is this sad?
Is this brave?
Is this temporary?
Am I doing this right?
I keep wondering when people will come see me. Or if they will. No one has actually committed yet. Which I’m trying not to make mean anything.
But obviously I’m making it mean something. Because I can feel my brain quietly building stories around it. Little ones. Unhelpful ones. The kind that show up before you even realize you’ve started narrating.
I tell myself it’s early. Everyone’s busy. I just moved in. Of course no one has plans yet.
And then five minutes later my brain is like, Or maybe they just won’t. Maybe this is the part where you’re the one who left, so you’re the one who has to go back.
I hate that thought. I pretend it doesn’t exist. It sits anyway.
To cope, I scroll Amazon like it’s my job.
Add to cart.
Remove.
Add again.
Different color.
Different size.
Do I need a throw blanket or is that just emotional support in fabric form?
In the moment, it feels urgent. Like if I don’t find the exact right lamp or rug or sliding cabinet, I’ll never feel comfortable here. Like comfort is a thing you can accidentally miss if you don’t choose correctly.
I know how ridiculous that sounds.
I also know how real it feels at 10:47 p.m. when the apartment is quiet and my phone is glowing and I’m convincing myself that this candle will fix everything.
Somewhere in the middle of all this, I realize something mildly annoying.
I’m my own therapist this week.
No appointments. No processing after the fact. Just me, noticing patterns in real time. Recognizing when I’m spiraling. Naming it. Watching myself reach for distraction and calling it what it is.
Which makes me wonder. Wasn’t all the wellness stuff supposed to prevent this?
The habits.
The routines.
The walks.
The breathing.
The whole idea that if you do enough “good” things, you build some kind of protective bubble around your nervous system.
Apparently not.
Apparently the bubble has a door. And life still knocks.
Then there’s the bigger question hovering behind all of it.
Where do you even build a sense of community when you’re gone from the house at 7 a.m. and home at 6 p.m.? When you’re not 25. When you don’t drink like you used to. When part of you genuinely wants book clubs and music meetups and Pilates and another part of you wants to be at home in sweats, binging RHOSLC, in bed by 8:30 p.m.
I keep wondering where that kind of balance is supposed to live.
And whether it’s something you find or something you allow yourself to want without apologizing.
Some moments I feel excited about it. Like this is a blank slate. Like choose your adventure.
Other moments it feels like standing in a huge open space wondering if anyone else is going to walk into it with me.
There’s another thing I’ve been circling but haven’t wanted to name yet.
I keep calling my old place home. I notice it every time I say it. I still haven’t changed my permanent address anywhere. Part of me tells myself it’s practical. Another part knows it feels symbolic, like changing it would be a declaration. Like I’d be saying this is permanent, there’s no return, this is the line in the sand.
And I’m not sure I’m ready to make it feel that final.
I can feel how much of that hesitation is tied to other people. To whether they’ll come see me. To whether this move gets validated by connection instead of just… choice. To the quiet hope that someone else will make it feel real so I don’t have to hold it alone.
But here’s the part I’m trying to practice in real time:
I can decide that this is my home now without erasing what came before. I can let this be permanent and still return to what once was home whenever I choose. The people I love aren’t gated by geography. They’re not revoked by an address change. And the ones who matter will still welcome me with open arms, whether I drive back or stay put.
This doesn’t have to be something that happens to me.
I can choose it.
And choosing it doesn’t mean cutting myself off. It means trusting that I don’t have to wait for permission to belong to my own life.
That’s when the question shows up.
Not one clear question. More like a pile of them. Tangled together. About belonging. About comfort. About whether this is the start of something expansive or just… quiet.
I almost don’t ask any of it. Because asking makes it real. And because right now, nothing is technically wrong. I’m safe. I’m fine. I’m functional. I’m doing what I said I wanted to do.
But there’s a difference between fine and settled.
And I can feel that gap.
So I ask the questions anyway. Not out loud. Not formally. Just to myself, standing in the kitchen, phone in hand, Amazon cart open, wondering if I should buy the stupid pillows.
I don’t get answers. Not yet.
But I do feel slightly less alone in my own head when I admit what I’m actually thinking.
Maybe that’s all this moment is asking of me.
Not certainty.
Not confidence.
Just honesty, even when it’s messy and contradictory and a little embarrassing.
The boxes are still here.
The cart is still full.
The questions are still unanswered.
And somehow, I’m still okay.
