This Is What 25 Feels Like

[This post originally appeared on Chelsey's personal blog.]

Last week it was cold enough in Nashville for a chance of snow to be indicated in the forecast; today it is nearly 80 degrees. I am currently sitting at my desk with the window wide open, listening to the sounds of a city street pre-rush hour while the air flirts with the idea of an early spring. Just minutes ago I was scrounging to find a summer candle to replace all of my holiday ones, and I listened to NeedtoBreathe the whole way home from work because nothing says more hours of daylight like blasting “Drive All Night” with the windows down. Never have I ever been so ready for this change.

There is something about a glimpse of spring in the winter that makes me incredibly anxious. The second warm air begins breathing life back into the city, I begin making a list of all the things I need to do. I need to go to the park and read outside and get Urban Juicer and write with my windows open and walk around Percy Warner or the entire day will surely be a waste. I must fully soak in and live this glorious spring day, because the rest of the week looks like rain and this moment is fleeting. The tease of a new season pulls me out of any contentment I may have had and creates an ache that sits heavy on my chest. I long for the sun-bathing-park-going-water-centered days of summer in a way that is almost painful.

This is what 25 feels like: one long winter sprinkled with a few springtime days that create a longing in my heart for seasons I am not yet in. An ache sits heavy on my chest as I grow acquainted with the tease of an unknown future. I get a wink of the possibility of having a creative career or living in a house that I can host small groups in or maybe just getting out of this season of life where I set an alarm for 5am every day, and then the moment passes and I'm back to naked tree branches and air so cold my car barely starts.

I told a table of friends the other night that I haven’t yet had a crisis about turning 25. I am an ambiguous dreamer, not a future goal setter, so I’ve never had a picture in my mind of what 25 would look like. I didn’t necessarily think I would be married or having babies (Lord have mercy) or hitting certain career milestones by the time I hit my mid-twenties, so I didn’t feel like I was coming up short when I blew out my candles this past December. I have a job I’ve learned to be grateful for; I get to travel and write; I have friends to laugh and drink margaritas and process life with. Sure, there are many boxes on my career to-do list left unchecked and someday down the road a family would be nice, but my life is full. And, up until this week, I really did believe that was enough.

Then something snapped.

It could be that I’ve been working too many hours or that I’ve been feeling particularly vulnerable or that I worshipped to the Bethel song "Take Courage" on Sunday, but the 25-year-old crisis that I thought I had side stepped has come knocking on my door, and it is seeking vengeance. The M.O. of my weekend quickly became an angsty “I am tired of waiting.” I am tired of knowing exactly what I want but not knowing how to get it. I am tired of feeling stuck and bored. I am tired of the same routine. I am tired of living in no man's land somewhere between Far Too Settled and Constant Transition.

For the first year and a half after I graduated college my life was a whirlwind. Spontaneous travel plans and working at a summer camp and taking a job that looked different every single day. I still have a piece of paper hanging from my rearview on an old necklace chain that says “The glory of God is man fully alive” from the time I drove my car across the country a month after graduation. I look at it every morning when I go to work at 5:45am and it splits open a longing deep within me. I don’t do well with the ordinary. I don’t want to succumb to routine. I want my life to always be as adventurous as it feels when I am jet setting to somewhere new.

The longing for somewhere I’ve been or somewhere I could be but am not yet feels like the 80-degree day in the middle of February. It creates an ache in me. It invites anxiety to take hold as I make lists and plans to soak it in for all its worth. It leaves me bitter and resentful when the next day is in the 40s and I realize that it was only a tease, not an actual change of season. These glimpses always beg the question: “Is this the way it will always be, or can I hope for summer? Can I hope for relational change? Can I hope for a career I really love? Can I hope to feel less stuck?”

The answer that I have clung to for the last 6 months is that this is all a lesson in being content. God has given me the gift of a steady schedule because my heart needed the discomfort of routine. I needed to learn to stay and plant roots and do boring things with gratitude instead of running away. And in a lot of ways, I still believe this is true.

But I’m also wondering if contentment, at least attached to the definition we often use meaning—“don’t you dare want anything more than this”—is a giant fallacy. Our hearts long for things and not only is it normal and a side effect of being human, it is also one of the clearest pictures of our desire for something more than what this life can give us—it points us to our desire for God.

I do not have almost any of the answers I would like to have about the balance of being both grateful for the place I’m in right now and allowing myself room to dream about adventures to come, but I know that God shows up in the longing. He shows up in the spontaneous plane ticket purchases and the morning stroller walks to Ugly Mugs and washing the dishes. He shows up and listens to our angst, redirects our dreams and whispers that he is the ultimate answer to our longing. Our hearts were made to be satisfied in him. It is okay to acknowledge and make space for our longings, and just as I opened my window this afternoon and invited in the promise of a new season in the midst of February, it is okay to be both grateful for winter and cling tight to the hope for spring.

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Featured

The End of An Era: Saying Goodbye to Windrose

Hi friends,

Announcement (sounds so formal, doesn’t it?):

It's the end of an era.

I’ve decided that, after nearly 8 years of telling stories of navigating life, this season of Windrose is drawing to a close.

Even Here: Words for When You're Wandering

When I was 22 years old, I visited the desert for the first time.

A metaphorical desert, if we’re getting technical.

I was fresh out of college, starry-eyed and eager to begin my post-grad life. I had big ‘ole me-centered dreams: a shiny, brag-worthy PR job in the music industry! An apartment with an exposed brick wall that (somehow) would fit an upright piano! A committed relationship with a kind, goofy man!

I got exactly none of those things.

To summarize an entire year’s worth of emotion: I was devastated.

What is Home?

Late last night, I flew back into town after a week away, the city lights covering the Valley like a blanket of incandescent flowers. I’ve flown into Phoenix at least a dozen times at this point. Usually, I can identify a handful of landmarks, like my antenna-scarred South Mountain or the twinkling lights of the bridges spanning Tempe Town Lake.

Flying into Nashville, however, was always different.

I Don't Live Here Anymore

I recently returned to Nashville for the first time since moving to Phoenix five months ago.

Before my reunion, I often said that the word “home” could apply to both Nashville and Phoenix. Nashville is my home. Phoenix is my home. I could find that home-sweet-home feeling in both cities.

During my 8 days back, I frequented my old haunts. The brickwalled coffee shop still serves the meanest mocha in town. The hillside winery still proves to be a worthwhile spot to sip away a sunny Sunday afternoon. The hip burger joint still offers a lovely evening to dine with friends, new and old. The lime-green Mexican restaurant on the corner of Whitebridge still feels like a queso-soaked refuge.

There were many “stills,” but there were changes, too.

Why did you move?

A cardstock print sits propped against the lamp on my desk: a taupe watercolor swipe outlining a peakside Saguaro, the sun a tiny ring above. Beneath this minimalist illustration are these words in typeface: “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”

I happened upon this notecard-sized print on the way out of a shop last weekend, after already having completed another purchase. It was the last print of its kind in the pile. I had to have it. I returned to the cashier: “This one, too.”

You see, this verse has been a thread weaving through my story, simple words spoken by a prophet long dead, a passage of comfort I’ve returned to again and again since my pilgrimage to the desert four years ago, when I inked a cactus on my wrist.

The Good Old Days

Last week was National Margarita Day.

I did not, however, celebrate the holiday. Truthfully, I’ve yet to find THE Mexican place here in Phoenix. You know the one: gaudy decorations, cheap food, even cheaper margaritas.

But there’s a Mexican restaurant at the corner of Charlotte and Whitebridge in Nashville, TN.

You may have heard of it.

Witching Hour (or, Fighting Off Demons at 3 am with a Box Cutter)

Between the hours of 3 - 4 am, I find myself awakened by nothing in particular. The room is silent. There is no sound outside. No loud car horns. No dogs barking.

I’m upset.

I wish it was something other than just me. Then I could stop it. Nothing is to blame. It feels like moments have passed since I closed my eyes. The moments of a long dreamless sleep last about 4 hours.

10 Life Lessons This Cross-Country Move is Attempting to Teach Me

There are a few lessons life has attempted to teach me since my move — all things that I haven’t yet spiced up into a full essay, but deserve to be memorialized by my metaphorical pen nonetheless.

So I present a collection of lessons I’ve learned — and am still learning — in the last 3 months.

What Will Your Life Look Like?

Tomorrow marks 3 months.

Three months here, sharing a zip code with Saguaros.

“So how is Phoenix?” a friend asked me over the phone as I sat on my balcony beneath glowing string lights, a pour of raspberry wine in my hand. The sun was setting, painting the eastern mountains with rosy swipes of redemption.

How has Phoenix been these last three months?

What is it Trying to Tell You, if Only You’d Listen?

I went on a date recently. Two glasses of Riesling, pleasant conversation, and a perfectly amicable guy — it was an altogether fine evening.

However, I wasn’t interested in a second date.

Not because of any run-for-the-hills red flags. Not because I didn’t think he was cute. Not because we didn’t get along. I simply — wasn’t interested.

There’s no better way to explain it. No fear-based avoidance of the potential for a healthy relationship. No disdain for commitment that needs a heavy round of therapy to work through. Nothing deeper than the inner sense that a second date just wasn’t necessary.

But, I said yes to getting dinner again with him.

The Other Side of Yes

I’m a No Girl.

In many ways, this is a good thing. I’m able to confidently decline invitations that disinterest me.

“Want to go whitewater rafting?” No thank you, I’m comfy right here on the bank.

“Want to do a shot?” No thank you, I’ll take my liquor with lime juice and Triple Sec, plz.

“Want to try this carrot cake?” No thank you, Harry, I can’t eat gluten.

“Want to go to Broadway?” No thank you, I’d prefer to go to bed.

In many ways, however, being a No Girl originates less from personal boundaries and more from fear. Fear and I happen to be pretty tight; we talk on the daily. Fear has been the primary consultant for many of my life decisions, in fact.

A Song for Growth

A year ago, a friend of mine got a job at a well known tech company. He had been slogging through the interviews, and he finally got an offer. Obviously he deserved it. He was a hard worker, and his attitude for success and life was admirable to say the least. I knew he was beyond qualified.

But at the time, I was on a career path I couldn’t see myself being happy in. I had made the mistake of staying in the industry mainly for the money. Every month in the industry was a reminder of how much I did not want to stay. It created a nasty cycle of overthinking and career angst. Feelings of inadequacy and existentialism rooted themselves deep inside me. I couldn’t focus on anything and was utterly disconnected from the work I was doing.

I admit I wasn’t happy for him.

Dreams, Life, Relationships, TravelChelsey SatterleeApril 12, 2018Featured2 Comments

This Is What 25 Feels Like

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