Syncopated Steps and Accidental Achievements
The rhythmic thud of my feet against the treadmill belt grounds me in the present moment. Eva Walker's voice on KEXP's "Early" show fills my ears, a comforting backdrop to my morning run. The familiar Seattle station echoes in my headphones, a sonic reminder of the Northwest I left behind. As I increase the speed, I glance up at the St. John's River stretching out before me, the rising sun painting the sky in hues of pink and orange. It's early October, and even through the gym's tinted windows, I can sense the day warming up, a gentle reminder of Florida's lingering summer.
This view, this moment—the music in my ears, the river ahead, the burn in my legs—is a tapestry of sensations I never thought I'd experience. It's a view that simultaneously fills me with gratitude and disbelief. This moment is the culmination of a journey I'm still trying to fully comprehend, especially in the wake of recent events.
Echoes of a Storm
Just a week ago, I was on the phone with my mom as Hurricane Helene ravaged her home in Mills River, North Carolina. Though I couldn't hear the wind itself, the sound of windchimes on her porch furiously clanging in the background haunts me still. It was like a chorus of prepared pianos gone mad, an eerie, discordant symphony heralding the storm's destruction. The contrast between that moment of crisis and this morning's tranquil sunrise is jarring. It's a reminder of how quickly life can change, and how precarious our sense of stability can be.
Escaping the Landlocked Life
A few years ago, I was a secretary in Idaho, holding a master's degree in English literature and making $33,000 a year, with little hope of escaping. The landscape of my life was as landlocked as the state itself, hemmed in by low wages and limited opportunities. The reality of being trapped in Idaho is something that's hard to convey to outsiders. In Moscow, where I lived, the cost of living might be lower than in other parts of the country, but so were the wages. Moving to more expensive cities seemed an insurmountable challenge.
The challenge of leaving was complicated by the combined forces of limited job opportunities, cultural barriers, and the simple lack of mobility that comes with financial struggle. High-paying jobs were scarce, often tied to either of two major employers with strong religious affiliations or the universities, where staff positions paid poorly and faculty roles were fiercely competitive. Those who did manage to leave for larger cities like Portland or Seattle often returned, burdened with credit card debt and priced out of their new homes. It was a cycle that trapped many in place, making the idea of escape seem like a distant dream.
The path out was neither straight nor easy. It required a leap of faith, a roll of the dice that led me to Salt Lake City. It was terrifying, but it was a gamble that paid off. Now, as I run with the river in view, I'm acutely aware of how far I've come. Yet, the echoes of those frantic chimes remind me of the fragility of it all.
The Weight of Progress
With this progress comes a weight I wasn't prepared for, made heavier by recent events. As I set up a GoFundMe campaign for my mother, whose home was devastated by floods, I'm struck by the strange juxtaposition of my life. Most of my peers, those making salaries similar to mine, have parents who are securely retired. I, on the other hand, find myself in a position to help my mother precisely because I'm upwardly mobile. It's a responsibility I'm grateful to be able to shoulder, but it's also a stark reminder of where I come from and the ongoing challenges my family faces.
This contrast is ever-present. At work, I'm writing year-long content calendars and 12-page style guides. In my personal time, I'm trying to coordinate support for my mom. The skills overlap in unexpected ways – planning, problem-solving, communication – but the emotional weight is vastly different. The day of the storm, I was trying to focus on a brand strategy meeting while half my mind was hundreds of miles away, wondering if another tree had fallen or if the creek had breached its banks at my mom's place.
Adding to this whirlwind of responsibilities, I've recently stepped into the role of programming director for AIGA. With two major events looming in the next two months and an almost entirely new board, the challenge is exhilarating and daunting in equal measure.
Finding Balance and Gratitude
As I navigate these complex emotions, I'm reminded of my mother's resilience in the face of devastation. Despite losing nearly everything, she still finds moments of humor, like laughing about the irony of experiencing her worst storm in inland North Carolina after 25 years in coastal Florida. Her ability to find gratitude in small moments – birds at a feeder, a beautiful sunrise – amidst devastating loss is both humbling and inspiring.
Her perspective challenges me to find balance in my own life. Can I be grateful for my progress without feeling guilty? Can I acknowledge the challenges of my past and present without being defined by them? Can I reconcile the person I see in the mirror with the way others perceive me?
The View from Here
The view from here is beautiful, yes, but it's also complex. It's a panorama of progress and responsibility, of growth and self-reflection, of gratitude and the ongoing journey of self-acceptance. As I continue to navigate this landscape, I'm learning that it's okay to hold these contradictions. The journey from where I was to where I am wasn't just about physical distance or professional achievement. It's an ongoing process of reconciling who I was with who I'm becoming, of learning to appreciate the view while acknowledging the climb it took to get here – and the storms that can still shake our foundations.
And so, as I finish my run and head into another busy day of meetings and projects, I carry with me the sunrise, my mother's resilience, and the echoes of past struggles and triumphs. Each step forward is a negotiation between my roots and my aspirations, a balancing act of gratitude and ambition.
Stepping out of the gym, the early fall air greets me with a gentle warmth. It's only 8:15 AM, but I can already feel the promise of a beautiful day. I'm drawn to the riverwalk, imagining the outdoor runs I'll soon enjoy as the weather becomes more accommodating. The brick-paved path, meticulously maintained, winds along the water's edge like a scene from a film. The morning light glints off the river's surface, casting dancing reflections on the sleek lines of the FIS building nearby. Its bold architecture stands in stark contrast to the natural beauty of the water and trees.
As I walk, the air filled with the scent of the river and the sound of awakening birds, I'm struck by the possibilities that stretch out before me, as vast and flowing as the St. John's itself. This path, this river, this moment – they're reminders of how far I've come, and how much further there is to go. The view from here isn't just about what I can see; it's about how I choose to see it. And today, as the seasons begin to shift, I choose to see possibility.
