with an epiphany, but I do wake up determined to get out of this house and seek out some new horizons. Tumbling out of bed, I decide that such a day is best started with a hearty breakfast. Who knows? Maybe after a cream cheese slathered bagel, the epiphany could follow pretty close. I slide two bagel halves into the toaster and when they pop back up, toss the hot discs onto a paper towel. Cream cheese goes on next, which I top with sliced strawberries. Last, it all gets layered neatly into a lidded container. Once Calypso is finished rubbing her black tail against my leggings, I throw on tennis shoes, stuff both breakfast and journal into a backpack, and head out for a morning walk to the park.
My steps feel lighter than usual on the stone path that leads from the apartment complex and deeper into the valley town that is home. Gunnison isn’t as much of a tourist destination as other places scattered in and around the Rockies, but it’s nestled right within the heart of it all, so there’s an energy here that keeps things interesting. The small-town feel is just as present and that’s why I love it here. Having grown up in Gunnison—attending elementary school and even high school here—it just remained the place to come home to after I graduated college. Now it’s still home, I’m an editor and writer instead of a student, and I still visit that elementary school at least one afternoon a week when I pick up my neighbor’s daughter from kindergarten.
After throwing my brown hair into a ponytail, I feel the warmth of the sun on my shoulders. Come winter, the streets and rental condos will be filled with tourists who venture here for winter sports. Skis will top SUVs that are headed for the slopes, and gas stations will advertise snow chains for sale and tow truck assistance. Kids will play all over the park, throwing snowballs and building snowmen while families gather around fireplaces to dry out from a day of laughter and being together.
But for now, it’s summer so the ski slopes to the north aren’t coaxing visitors by the droves. A few of them will stir to life on summer weekends for the local mountain biking events. But that’s all an hour or two away. As for me, I aim for the nearby park that’s right on the river’s edge. It will be the perfect spot to eat breakfast and journal some ideas on what to do with my life. Nothing like scratching pen to paper to get the mental wheels turning. I don’t know what I’m going to do about the state of my romantic misadventures, but I don’t want to keep spending half my life waiting for a status quo that might not be meant for me. Yes, a girl can keep hoping, but not if it freezes her in time. It’s time to stop wishing for the chance to get picked for a team, all the while watching men and women pair up and walk down the aisle.
There’s got to be more than this swelling sadness of disappointment inside.
What more can there be? As I settle down at a wooden picnic table and splay out my journal, it’s the perfect time to find out. Famished now, I pop the lid on the container of breakfast and savor a few bites. Okay. Next step. Brainstorm.
I add bullet points to the journal. Take a bite of bagel. Then write the first thing that comes to mind.
Find more purpose.
Definitely. I tug at my bangs a few times until the next goal surfaces.
Do new things.
Also good. The pen scribbles across paper.
Fill my time with something more than hoping and waiting.
Ooh. This one is harder, but it’s honest. And that’s where I might need a little bit of help.
Stop being afraid.
Hmm . . . there’s something here. I don’t quite see it yet, but possibility lives here beside an ink-sketched dot. Afraid of what? Loneliness? Unknowns? The future? Doing things solo?
Maybe a decent amount of each of those things.
Today is a perfectly good Wednesday, and once I finish up all my editing and writing work for the day, I won’t have anything else to do this evening. Last Wednesday I organized the freezer, and the week before had a movie marathon all by myself. Not that those things aren’t good, but it’s time to shake up my life. I’m like those people who live in New York City but have never been to the top of the Empire State Building. I live in the midst of so much activity and energy, but I rarely take the opportunity to be a part of it.
I think of how sad Britt was last night. The story I shared of sitting on the bathroom floor? Just one of many. My gaze shifts to a couple walking by. They’re hand in hand, enjoying a morning stroll. A sweet sight, but I turn away, preferring to study the mountains in the distance again. But still, I have to swallow a sad feeling in my throat.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The pen tip bounces staccato-like on the edge of the open page. Birds soar in the distance, and the woodsy scent of a Colorado summer fills the warming day.
“I’m so sorry,” says a polite voice from behind me.
I angle to see a middle-aged woman in a business suit. “I’m a local wedding coordinator and we’re setting up this area for a rehearsal this afternoon. Could you possibly move to the other side of the river?” Her glittery nails clutch a file folder that’s probably a write-up of the happy couple. Their hopes. Dreams. Visions for the upcoming day. For the future.
“Oh. Yeah. No problem.” Gathering up the journal and empty container, I stuff it all back into my pack.
“Thank you so much.” She pivots and starts directing a group of guys hauling chairs.
I clear out of the spot, feeling small. In the way. It really was a beautiful location. The perfect vista for a bride to walk down the aisle in white. The ache wedges deeper.
Deep breath, Sadie. Time to remember why I came here.
“To try something new,” I mutter to myself. The pack feels heavy and the corner of my journal digs into my hip like a taunt.
No. I’m not going to give in to these feelings. I drop the pack, smooth out the lumps, and trek onward. “Don’t be afraid.” Thinking back to what’s written on the list, I recite the other goals as well.
These are important things. But how to achieve them? While my heart is for adventure, I’ve always been more of a homebody. Someone who hangs out with her cat, reads stacks of books for her day job, while scribbling away on articles to sell to an online magazine to make ends meet. All good things, but I want to do more than read about experiences. I want to have them.
“Well,” I say aloud, “taking new steps forward will involve a different type of intentionality. It will also begin by not relying on others to make me happy.” That’s a good start. It’s crucial to find something that I can do to be proud of. Something that I can achieve all on my own. Something that if it goes askew, I can laugh about it with the girl in the mirror each morning. Sort of like trying to find a quiet picnic spot, only to be in the way of someone’s wedding plans.
Oh, the irony.
Up ahead, a silver-haired woman is bicycling up the path. Her hot pink helmet matches her sporty tank top, skin aged by sun and years of life. Her body strains as she crests a slope and her posture proves that she’s done this a time or two. Maybe even for decades. As the cyclist draws nearer, I see it’s Dolores from the singles group. She was widowed about ten years ago and started coming last winter as a way to get out of the house and meet some new faces. I knew she rode her bike each week but had no idea she was this dedicated. She passes by in a whir of bicycle tires, and in spotting me, waves happily before gliding onward. Her posture takes on the hunched, focused form again. I smile. That’s exactly the spark I’m looking for. Just me, doing something meaningful. Something that brings joy.
My mind flashes back to the evening I sat on the bathroom floor with Dolores by my side. I had been such a mess. So vulnerable. We talked candidly about how easy it would feel sometimes to just compromise God’s call on my heart and life. But she listened as I tried to articulate why I was putting so much effort and intention into trying to find a life partner as a Christian. It’s not that I’m stuck up or boring or don’t have desires. I actually do. It’s just that not only do I want to honor God with my life and choices, I don’t want to send the message to men—or myself—that my body is on loan. I have value, and I won’t be interested in sharing my time until a man is willing to put in the love and dedication it takes to walk side-by-side together in marriage.
Dolores pulled me into a tight hug that night, encouraging me to not give up the faith. To keep pressing onward. God would provide in ways I least expect, she said. Some days I wish that provision included a future husband on my doorstep, but maybe she also meant that God would provide with other good things. Unexpected surprises.
Wonder. Life. Joy. And so much more . . .
With a glance back to my peaceful spot that is being covered in rows of white chairs, I do my own kind of marching forward—more determined than ever. For now, as I traverse through life as a single woman, I want to be like Dolores and hold my head high. I want something to be excited about. Something that’s mine. Something that doesn’t feel like being stuck in a waiting room. Purpose. Adventure. Experiences that could give me fresh purpose could be just the ticket. Hmm.
Bicycling? Definitely a possibility, but would it really be my thing? There’s a way to find out. I aim forward, certain of where I’m going now. More certain than I’ve been in a long time.
Hiking? Fishing?
Here in the heart of Colorado, options are endless. What if I find a new hobby or sport that could fill up my time a little more? Something to throw some passion and energy into? Still walking, I lift my shoulders against the lingering feeling of rejection just now, and push myself to ponder what could lie ahead. There’s an outdoor sports store only a few miles away. I’ve never actually gone inside, and honestly the thought never even crossed my mind before, but maybe now it's different. I mean. I’m not super outdoorsy, but maybe I could stop in there . . . peruse. They’ll have bikes and just about everything else under the sun. It could be a way to get a literal feel for some of the options out there. Maybe something will spark.
The idea seems kind of odd, but is it any weirder than an overcrowded Monopoly game? Could this be an idea . . . a path . . . worth treading. I did write down to be brave. And this would definitely be outside of my comfort zone. And contemplating the recent singles night fiasco has me cringing at what my comfort zone has been. Everything that’s safe and predictable. Not only stagnant and stale, but utterly joyless. Recalling the dating apps filed away on my phone still—sleepy and forgotten—I cue up the folder that stores several. Not that there’s anything wrong with apps like these. But in the past, I gave them too much hope. I saw them as a lifeline that could rescue me from a life of solitude. But they haven’t been a lifeline and maybe that’s for good reason. Maybe it’s time for me to consider something different.
Perhaps it’s time.
They’re not even active anymore and the sheer reminder of that roller coaster ride has been enough to make me seize up each time I spot the bright icons here on this screen. It’s time to set them aside. At least for now. At least while I try and find a joy that’s lasting and one that isn’t rooted in the actions and behaviors of someone else. With a few resolved swipes of my thumb, I delete each one into yesteryear.
Yes. It’s definitely time to start thinking outside of the box. I’m scared to consider what’s going to happen to my life if there are many more repeats of being a cardboard person in a cardboard life. A single woman who feels stuck and like the only hope to be found lies in the dream of a relationship. But that hasn’t panned out . . . I don’t want to be stuck anymore.
A red trolley clangs as it drives down the road. Loaded with tourists off to explore a glorious day among the foothills. I’ve never played tourist myself much. I’ve always been so focused on checking off just the right boxes in life. Except there’s one box that I can’t seem to tick off. There’s this dream inside of me to have more than bridesmaid dresses hanging in the closet. But it’s also a dream that’s been unattainable. That’s not to say that I don’t still yearn to meet a great guy. Maybe it will happen.
But maybe it won’t.
Either way, I don’t want to be the gal on the bathroom floor again, pressing the knob of the hand dryer to drown out the sound of her tears. I want to be proactive. I want to be victorious.
I want to be confident and free.
The old love letters beneath my dresser declare—from a number of men—that I have value. Two years of gathering dust now says that I don’t. I want to sing a new song. I want to believe a new story. I want to feel value rise inside and to stop this train of belief that comes from every angle, including within, that I’m not worthy.
Nearly to my Jeep now, my eyes travel the bike trail where Dolores just cruised by in hot pink. If I could pin down what freedom might feel like . . . that’s the closest thing I’ve come across lately. Maybe Dolores is onto something. The idea of combing the aisles of the outdoor sports store is calling to me louder and louder. So clearly that I think this dense thirty-two-year-old just might have stumbled upon something a little bigger than her. A little bigger than the world she’s been stuck in. If she just raises her gaze and sees the possibilities around her, she could see that life is more than narrow walls and silence.
Hope is rising, and it feels like a gift from heaven.
The wedding rental truck is straight up blocking me from backing away. I circle around the white van and tap a friendly hand against the driver’s side door. “Good day! I’ll need you to park up a bit so I can drive off.” I have a feeling I’m talking to more than just the venue guy. I’m talking to every broken dream and fractured desire.
The driver cues up the engine and I’m all but laughing as I hurry to my car.
I swing my pack free and toss it into the Jeep’s passenger’s seat. It’s a beautiful day here in Colorado . . . and since all the shops open at ten, I’ve got somewhere important to be.