I spend a lot of time walking through Walgreens, more than your average young adult. The cashiers ask about my parents. My parents and I share the same Rewards card and rack up the savings. Every year, moments before the candy corn goes on sale, the store stocks up on Christmas cards, decorations and quick gift sets—you’ve probably seen them. They’re like miniature water fountains, jewelry trees and other table-top items that you imagine someone might like or make use of. It’s the thought that counts, right?

Late 2012, just a few days leading up to Christmas, Walgreens had a shelf filled with piggy banks in white, each covered with pink polka dots. That thing was made for me.

I’m a grown woman, living in a teen-era bedroom.

I must’ve posted a photo of the piggy bank on Instagram… #ChristmasGift. I received one much larger that had polka dots in pastel colors. It was perfect. Each time something special happened during the year, I wrote a brief description on a Post-It note, folded it three times, and slipped the memory into the piggy bank. The tradition leads up to New Years Eve, when you open up the piggy bank to read all the notes and reminisce on positive things.

Nearly two years later, it still sits unopened on the piano beside my bed, filled with good memories.

If I had to sum up 2014 as a whole,
I’d say one half was okay
while the other was purgatory.

That’s not to say this year was completely void of amazing moments, accomplishments, and self-discoveries, but my overall sentiment is partly due to disappointment. Maybe somewhere along the line, deep in my subconscious or in outer space, I feel like I haven’t achieved as much progress as I had imagined or wanted. I ventured onto different experiences, with a much needed bravery boost, and worked with some great people on really exciting projects. Somehow, it mostly feels outward; a part from myself. I’m doing things for others. I’m helping them reach their goals. I’m contributing to their bottom line.

The bulk of freelancing is to be available and ready for any challenge. It’s very impromptu. Honestly, it’s a lifestyle that hasn’t settled well with the anxious creature that I am. Maybe my pride and stubbornness is in part of what pushed me through every fear this past summer and fall. The other part? Praying to Jesus to take the wheel, drive my cash-only kaboosh out of the EZ Pass lane during rush hour and keep my pulse pumping.

No, like seriously.

Eventually, I realized I had to start saying, “No.” I didn’t have to always be available at everyone’s beck and call. I was entitled to private time, days to take care of personal obligations, visit loved ones in the hospital, actually see the doctor to take care of my own health, etc. etc. I was a “people pleaser” to an unfair extent and, at times, underpaid and overworked. Behind the smiles and the “I’m doing great,” I was really alternating between depression, stress and doubts, not just about my life, but also about those around me.

It took years of me saying I’ll move to Los Angeles.
It took months of me claiming when I’ll go.
It took weeks for me to finally book a one-way flight.

In thirteen days I’ll be on the west coast. There’s so much planning that a person can do until life kicks in with surprises. So, I’m winging it. I was so scared and pessimistic within the last month, so much that I nearly forgot why I wanted to go in the first place. WTH. I’d often ask myself if this whole plan was crazy. Like a child, I was seeking some sort of reassurance or approval from someone. Anyone. Even though there have been so many words of encouragement along the way. But when it came down to making a decision — setting a date — I was beside myself.

I burst into tears for three seconds.
Booked.
That was easy.

I’m absolutely messed up, scared. Then I’m incredibly excited. I keep myself occupied, despite wanting to take care of a few creative goals, i.e. actually writing a blog entry a.k.a. sorry for the lack of updates.

Organizing laundry, making coffee, sweeping… Some of the most boring moments of my day brings me to tears. I could cry for a good five minutes. Other times it’s just a tear. I worry. A lot. And I’m very sentimental. I want to go — badly — and I want to stay (until the cold breeze hits my chubby face while I wait for a delayed train… again).

After booking my flight and AirBnB reservation, I started speaking with a potential roommate, someone who seems very similar to me. One evening, I was chatting with an acquaintance from LA about my plans and I guess the need for approval came in again. They may not have intended to be mean-spirited, but they laid out all my disadvantages right in front of me. Who am I to think that I’ll achieve certain progress in such a short [ budgeted ] amount of time? I’m not asking to be CEO, but my entire strategy seemed impractical. I cried. Yup, I did. I just felt crazy again.

I am NOT crazy.

That following afternoon, mi amigo and I went to explore the festive Christmas decorations in Manhattan. We walked from Penn Station to Grand Central. It reminded me of when I took vocal lessons. It was during a confusing time between semesters and working full-time as a finance office temp. It wasn’t particularly my expertise. In fact, this was within a three-year depression. Yikes. Unbeknownst to me at the time, a great change was approaching.

“This is where I’d get off the train and walk down that street to see her for the lessons,” I told him.

We were in the mood for Italian food and went on a search. “We need a place where we can always meet for lunch when you come visit from LA,” he said.

Each restaurant we walked up to was closed. “Maybe they’re closed because it’s Christmas week. You know how religious Italians can be!”

After another Yelp search, we found a spot and called to confirm their hours. We probably walked another ten blocks, but we made it. Two orders of Penne Rigate, a coke cola and Blue Moon. Buon Appetito. We crossed the street to start taking photos. I looked over to my left and couldn’t believe who I saw: my vocal teacher. I walked up to say hello and she greeted me with the biggest, warmest hug. She was so excited, “Are you two taking style photos?” I explained it’s for his new fashion blog and we chatted for a bit. I told her I was leaving to LA soon.

Maybe I don’t need approval. However, what I do need is positivity, and when she instantly spoke nothing but blessings over my plans, it just felt like a good sign. Out of the millions of people in this city, out of how-many-years-later, of all the streets and avenues, and of all the afternoons, I ran into someone who was seeing two parts of me. The insecure girl in college, trying to figure it all out and the still-somewhat-insecure young professional taking a 3,000-mile leap of faith.

I rethink about all the things my family, friends and colleagues have said: that they’re proud of me, that I am strong and brave, I am smart, and I will achieve my dreams in due time. And I remember that I am a child of God, with a purpose, that His plan is greater than mine. I need to trust in these things far more than giving into the worries that are based on imaginary scenarios. Their words build a rubberband ball of encouragement that gets larger by the day. Sometimes I lose it. Sometimes I forget. And since living in a limbo state for the past six months, I am finally edging towards a goal that will work out in some way. Maybe not exactly how I can imagine it, but somehow.

So, even though 2014 wasn’t particularly great, I am thankful for all the people and moments that made me smile between the messes. God willing, 2015 will be an amazing journey.