Four months into living with my parents after the world shut down in 2020, it was time to go. I remember walking around the neighborhood with my mom, one of the only things that gave me structure in my life during that time, and her telling me that I had to go get my life back. I was struggling and I knew that I was sinking deeper the longer I stayed. Life was unknown, which is how it had always been, but I had mostly been able to put that thought away. Now, the pandemic put that worry at the forefront of every single conversation. As I write this, I’m struck by the selflessness of Motherhood. How a mom keeps showing up with what they think is best for their child, even if it’s hard and painful for them. Parenting seems like the ultimate religious experience. A faith that at the end of the day, their kid’s life will lean towards kindness, that your kid will make the right decision, bring the right people into their life, that they’ll call, and hold you in their heart as they grow into the world. Time after time I have been shown this love. So when my mom told me that it was time to go, she was right. Off into the unknown, unfolding world (much like the world before 2020) to find my place in it. A few days after I arrived in Anchorage, I drove out to one of my favorite spots. I walked over the train tracks, down a dirt path, and sat where the mud reached the land. I took this photo at 11:38PM. As the tide lapped in, I felt like I had my life back. No lightbulb, no dramatic spotlight of sunshine on me, just a gentle feeling that I was where I needed to be. Maybe my mom had told those mountains to hold me when she couldn’t. And all that has come to me since has been a gift.