What the Hell Am I Doing?

There are days when I'm really excited about starting over.

And then there are days when I sit down and actually think about everything I have to do.

And I think:

What the hell am I doing?

I have a lot to figure out.

I need to find a job.

I need a job because I'm going to be living out of a change jar and whatever little bit I can get from my 401(k).

I need to find somewhere to live—with bad credit and very little money.

I need to somehow afford a moving truck.

Then I actually have to load the damn thing.

I have to figure out where I'm going to live, what I'm going to take, what I'm going to sell, what I'm going to get rid of, and how I'm going to get myself and my dog from New York to Tennessee.

And honestly?

Sometimes all of this feels overwhelming.

But you know what keeps going through my head the most?

Leaving.

That should be the hardest part.

I've lived here for more than 30 years.

And yet, somehow, I haven't made the kind of connections here that I thought I would.

I've always tried to make myself available for other people.

If someone needed me, I was there.

If someone needed something, I'd figure it out.

I've always made myself free for other people.

But when I need people?

The crickets start chirping.

And that hurts.

Maybe that's part of why leaving feels so strange.

I'm leaving a place where I've spent more than half my life, but I'm not necessarily leaving a life that feels deeply rooted here.

And then there are all the little things.

The things you don't think about until you actually have to do them.

Change of address.

New driver's license.

New registration.

New insurance.

New everything.

And then I start thinking about Tennessee.

Like...

What do you do when you live in a state where your car only has one license plate?

Do I put the new plate on the back?

Will it look weird?

Will it match my car?

Why am I worrying about the license plate?

And then, naturally, my brain moves on to the really important stuff:

What's the best Dunkin' in the area?

See?

This is how my brain works.

I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to afford a place to live and I'm simultaneously conducting extremely important research on Tennessee Dunkin' locations.

Maybe that's normal.

Maybe it's my brain's way of giving itself a break from the scary stuff.

Because there is a lot of scary stuff.

And I haven't even talked about the part that happens inside my head.

I deal with anxiety.

I deal with depression.

I deal with body dysmorphia.

And those things don't exactly disappear because you've decided you're going to start a new chapter.

If anything, a giant life change gives them plenty of material to work with.

There are days when my brain tells me I'm making a terrible mistake.

There are days when I worry that I'm going to fail.

There are days when I wonder if I'm being completely irresponsible.

And the thought of failure weighs heavy.

Because what if I get there and can't find a job?

What if I can't find a place to live?

What if I run out of money?

What if I hate it?

What if I can't make friends?

What if I'm lonely?

What if I discover that starting over doesn't magically make everything better?

Those are real fears.

I'm not going to pretend they aren't.

But here's something else I'm trying to remind myself:

Staying exactly where I am isn't guaranteed to make everything better either.

That's the part I'm trying to remember.

There are no guarantees.

Not staying.

Not leaving.

Not starting over.

Not playing it safe.

So maybe the goal isn't to make the perfect decision.

Maybe the goal is to make a decision and then do the best I can with it.

I'm 52.

I'm not starting over with a clean slate.

I'm bringing my history with me.

My mistakes.

My fears.

My insecurities.

My bad credit.

My stuff.

My dog.

My ridiculous amount of questions about Tennessee license plates.

And all the things I've learned the hard way.

I'm also bringing hope.

And maybe that's enough to start with.

I don't know what happens next.

I don't know exactly where I'll live.

I don't know what job I'll have.

I don't know what my new life will look like.

I don't even know which Dunkin' I'm going to make my regular one.

But I'm going.

And maybe that's the point of this entire project.

Not pretending I'm fearless.

Not pretending I have everything figured out.

Not pretending starting over is easy.

I'm scared.

I'm overwhelmed.

I'm excited.

I'm hopeful.

I'm sad.

I'm curious.

I'm all of those things at the same time.

And I'm going to do it anyway.

Because maybe courage isn't feeling like you know what you're doing.

Maybe courage is saying:

"I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing... but I'm going to try."

So that's where I am today.

Trying.

Figuring it out.

Making lists.

Worrying.

Laughing at myself.

Probably worrying some more.

And occasionally Googling Dunkin' locations.

Welcome to the real beginning of Cyndee's Life After 50 Project.

Less stuff. Less bullshit. More life.

Come along…