A transplant, home.

Deciding to write again wasn’t spontaneous. I never even wanted to get out of writing in the first place. I just stopped. And for no good reason. But now I’m here. I’m carrying around my journal. I’m writing my little notes and reading as much as I can.

And I finally joined a writing group. This, I believe, has been one of the most significant contributing factors to my renewed desire to put pen to paper again. But it took a while for me to get here.

I moved back to Colorado after 17 years in Nebraska and spent a year mostly indoors. Sure, my husband and I would go out and explore the mountains, attend events, hike, and eat non-stop at local restaurants. But many of my days were spent inside, thinking about my next steps. Should I reconnect with my childhood friends? Should I get outside and try something new? Should I hop on my bike that I haven’t used yet, with no sense of bike laws or paths to take to get where I’m going?

Or should I just stay inside, appreciate being back home near my family, and only go out when there is something to do?

I used to make friends easily. But I also used to be a child. I feel like all children know how to connect with others on the most basic, primordial levels. The only problem is that I’m not a child anymore, so making friends in a new city at 33 is a different experience. You can’t just run up to another adult in the playground and say, “Can I play, too?”

It would be nice, though. It’s no surprise that millennials are starting to open adult daycare centers for themselves. We trap ourselves in this infantilizing loop. Growing up. Being told we don’t know anything. Accruing interest on our student loans. Then asking people at the bar about their Hogwarts house. We’re exhausting.

My husband is an artist, so he’s been putting himself out there with local markets. He’s successful, and he’s also a magnet for meeting people—and I’ve never met anybody who doesn’t like Cam. Before he’d leave for the night, and knowing that I was staying home and sitting on the couch, I’d say, “Have fun and make us friends!” We’d laugh and he’d come home talking about the new and interesting people he met. But it was inappropriate for me to rely on him to do this.

And who was I? The languished, at-home house-husband? A moaning hermit who would spend an entire week inside and then wonder, How am I not making friends?

Two weeks ago, I decided to join a writer’s group that I found on a social networking app. As I drove to the historic community center where they hold their meetings, my heart burst from my chest. I took big gulps of water from a Nalgene bottle and gnashed on my spearmint gum. I repeated, like a mantra, “Calm down, calm down, you got this.” I walked into the community center, sat at a table, and decided to share my work.

I can see friendships developing from the experience already. And I think it’s because art and expression tap into the primordial spirit of childhood. When you open yourself up, you show others around you who you truly are and how you navigate your thoughts before putting them on the page.

I hope to share more stories and publications with you as I begin writing and submitting stories again. This blog is my place to talk about my life, current events, movies, tv shows, and books I’m reading. It’s a place for whatever.

And, hopefully, you will get to know me through my writing and greet me as a friend through this expression — on the most basic, primordial level.