There is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from living a life where your physical body and your mental presence are never in the same place. For me, it feels like a perpetual haunting. When I am standing in the wide, sun-scorched expanse of Texas, my mind is often wandering through the mist-heavy treelines of Oregon. Then, when I finally find myself in the Pacific Northwest, the phantom heat and specific gravity of the south pull me back. It is a restless internal migration that never truly ends, leaving me feeling like a stranger in both places.
This disconnection extends into the very fabric of my daily rhythm. At work, I am mentally already at home, seeking the sanctuary of my private thoughts and the peace of my own space. Yet, the moment I cross my own threshold, the weight of professional responsibilities and the unfinished business of the day follow me in, looming like shadows in the corner of the room. I am never fully "there" because I am always mourning where I just was or bracing for where I have to go next.
I have been cast to and fro through the storms of change and expectation. These aren't just geographic shifts; they are the spiritual and emotional gales that refuse to let me anchor. This constant displacement creates "images of depletion," where the energy required to simply exist in the present is swallowed by the winds of elsewhere. I am learning that the struggle is to find a way to quiet the storm from within—to stop being a passenger to the wind and start becoming the center of the calm. My goal now is to bridge that gap, to stop the "to and fro" and finally allow my spirit to catch up to my skin.
