I spent 6 years at 6,250 ft above sea level. I remember taking day trips to the valley and feeling like a superhuman, soaking up all that extra oxygen. Spending too much time at sea level took away our super powers and we spent days re-acclimating. In a lot of ways, I felt this descension hard, not just in breathing (a rush of oxygen! everything is new! Wheee! and then, whoa.), but in an abrupt change in every aspect of our lives since we moved back to Ohio mid-May. We’re parents, we’ve both started new careers, we’re both eating too much cheese. We’ve lost a lot and we’ve gained a lot. Our families are close, Target is close, certain things are more affordable, and gas is half the price. The family farm is 15 minutes away and lunch with my grandma is priceless. The fresh produce is addicting. Our son has so many cousins, we are so loved by all of our friends and family members, all within 30 minutes. I fell into a career I’m so incredibly excited to dig into. We’ve lost access to backpacking out our front door, skiing in 5 minutes, a culture aimed at spending as much time outside free of humidity and poison ivy and mosquitos, 300+ sunny days a year, small town life with friendly post masters, hardware store owners, coffee shop friends, our incredible mountain family, surrounded by one of the most photographed lakes on Earth, surrounded by people constantly taking risks, rolling the dice personally and professionally.
Balance is subjective.
The Midwest is comfortable. Not the weather per se (weather jokes!), but as evidenced by the ubiquity of La-Z-Boy recliners and the amount of butter on everything, comfort is king. I say this anecdotally, but I also think this spills into the culture of the Midwest, especially when it comes to work. The professional code is that if you find a “good” job (one with benefits and decent pay), you stick your toe in the floor, pour cement around your foot, and stay past retirement age. Buy a house to grow old in. And do it all fresh out of college.
I didn’t do any of this. After three years of teaching in Toledo, I burned out and moved across the country. I didn’t heed the advice of my Midwest upbringing of staying in one place. I hopped around professionally, taking freelance editing jobs, working for a pest control company, tutoring winter athletes/Olympic hopefuls, writing copy for a handful of health and wellness companies and start ups in the Bay Area. Tahoe culture pushed me out of my comfort zone in every single way. It reprogrammed my “comfort zone” Midwest brain. I shaved my head and quit jobs I didn’t want to do anymore, without a plan or a back up. Skiing helped immensely. It constantly asked me to be brave and being surrounded by others who pushed past their fears taught me that fear shouldn’t be a deterrent, but motivation. Backpacking taught me self-reliance and finding comfort in the uncomfortable. I did a ton of scary things in the six years out there.
And I never want to stop pushing myself into the unknown.
Being 7 months pregnant and giving up my beautiful mountain life that I loved so much was tough. I still pause and really think through the question everyone inevitably asks, “Why in the world did you move back?” It’s complicated. I thought I knew what we were heading back to, but in reality, Toledo has changed so much since we’ve lived here, more than we were able to fully understand during holiday visits. There is a vibrancy, a revitalization, and with that includes people that care about where Toledo is headed, that truly love where they are.
That love is contagious.
In 10 days, I officially start my new career as a children’s librarian. The culmination of teaching, loving books, and my forever longing of improving a community through arts, culture, nature, and technology, has led me to this incredible opportunity to plug into. The branch I’ve been assigned to is in the neighborhood I grew up in. My mom, brother, and I would drag our wooden Radio Flyer wagon to the West Toledo Branch and load up on books. My first library card was a flimsy blue and white piece of plastic with my name spelled carefully in cursive. I learned to spell my name on walks to the library as my mom would make up spelling songs to teach us our unique French surname. I entered the cookie baking contest every year, nearly always winning with her fail safe chocolate chip recipe that I was never allowed to share. We always worked our way through summer reading challenges with that wagon full of books, forever finding new corners of our house on Berdan to fold into and read. In 2nd grade, I couldn’t put down Shel Silverstein’s, “Where The Sidewalk Ends,” and my mother encouraged this behavior by allowing me to lie in bed, perfectly healthy, for two days straight, sending up food to my room until I emerged blurry eyed and mesmerized. I am now a mother myself, working at the same library branch that fostered an overwhelming love of literature. That foundation led me to an English degree, being a writer myself, finding new ways of understanding the world around me by reading, and striving to help others do the same: first through teaching and now through librarianship. I’m beyond excited to figure out what that actually means and to find how I can add value to this community that I am cautiously falling in love with again.
This job has been a much needed anchor as I start to figure out who I am as a Midwesterner and Toledoan. I trained with some of the best, smartest people I’ve ever met before I went on maternity leave and I already feel so at home in ways I didn’t expect. I’ve dreamed of a career that would meld my varied experience with a community focus. It’s early, it’s new, it’s yet to be determined, but I can’t help but think, “This is it.”
I’m attempting to redefine what it means to be in the Midwest again and remind myself that I am at my best when I’m constantly grappling with being afraid. Am I ready to pour concrete on my foot and plant myself here, forever? Maybe I’ll never be that person. What I do know is that there are new fears to be explored here, hang ups that will shock me, scare me, and inevitably improve me. Everything I learned in the mountains can be applied to this altitude as well. The lessons are ubiquitous as long as I’m paying attention.
As a skiing mentor to a group of 4th grade girls, when I witnessed the scared stare that every new skier has when faced with a drop that feels too steep, I’d tell them, “Conquer fear, that’s why we’re here,” and I’d show them what I would do when faced with the same fear.
Take a deep breath.
And another one.
Shrug those shoulders.
Open your eyes.
Say, “Oh well,”
and drop in.
I’m in a new land, in a new job I’m afraid I won’t be great at, as a new mother with less energy, less sleep, less extra thinking time, reading time, me time, yoga time, skiing time, hiking time, more to worry about, plan, organize, worry, worry.
So here’s to a shrug, an “oh well,” deep breaths, lots of deep breaths, and dropping into a life that sometimes feels too steep. And remembering that hydration is still important and maybe cheese isn’t all that bad.
October 4th, 2017, Great Basin National Park, peeking at Wheeler Peak