334 days ago I woke up in Seattle, the first morning on which I would call the city home. 335 days ago my car had broken down on the side of the highway, full of all of my belongings and 6 exits away from my new house. So the next morning I took the bus to work, walking past the car parked in front of my house that had been delivered to the curb by a tow truck the evening before. My sweet friend played a show in Ballard that night. I spent $9 on a beer, an occurrence that would become unfortunately expected as I settled into Seattle. The days of $6 imperial pints at my favorite brewery in my college town were over; this was life in the city. 

317 days ago, it rained.

284 days ago I got my first $15 haircut on Northern Aurora, the stretch of Highway 99 that takes one from my neighborhood out of the city, known for being saturated with drug use and other crime. I walked past the sex workers on the street to get my bleach-fried hair snipped to align with my jawbone at the small hair salon sandwiched between the strip club and what would eventually become my favorite pizza place in the city.

264 days ago, it rained

216 days ago I turned 25. There are often negative connotations to growing older, particularly for women. There is a fear around mid-twenties tipping into late. But I tell people my life gets better each year I grow older. I am wiser. I am stronger. I keep better company. I am more myself than I have been since I was a child wandering the river banks of Southern Oregon, building cairns and learning to swim. 

212 days ago I spent New Year’s Eve singing karaoke with new friends, seeing a happier version of myself reflected in the downtown shop windows of the city as we rode through the streets in an overpriced Uber. 

207 days ago my roommate adopted a new cat, one I pretended I didn’t want. A snotty two-year-old menace of a Persian that quickly snuggled his way into the hearts of the household. He would lay on my lap for months to come, often just for attention, but sometimes also because I think he knew his presence helped as I battled a long and dark winter.

193 days ago I cried as I traded in my treasured 1997 Ford Explorer, a car that had been handed down in my family for 3 generations. I drove north to Bellingham in order to swap it for a small, much safer, light blue Toyota.

192 days ago, it rained. The streets flooded and I didn’t know how to turn on the windshield wipers of my new car. 

190 days ago I bought my new rollerskates. I wouldn’t use them until 44 days after that, but once I did I quickly fell comfortably back into the rhythm of wheels under my feet coasting over rough pavement; I was making myself at home once again. 

167 days ago I went through another breakup. I spent Valentine’s Day on the floor of my room by myself, thrashing in frustration and grief. I played sad love songs in my car on dark cold mornings on my way to work, refusing for a moment to keep forcing myself into happiness like a shoe that didn’t fit. Sometimes seasons in our life simply do not feel good. Sometimes it rains. Sometimes it pours. 

161 days ago I jumped into Shilshole Bay for the first time, satiating a need for chaos by submerging myself in the 45-degree water of Puget Sound. Saltwater in my mouth and hair placed me back in the body I’d withdrawn from again. In the months to come, I’d jump into the water at least 15 more times. 

161 days ago, it rained. 

150 days ago I started my blog, finally sharing the writing I’ve spent years collecting and hoarding. There is such a vulnerability in allowing your art to exist outside of the safety of your drafts, placing the sanctity of your creativity into the hands of the world. Sharing typos and run-on sentences, hoping they resonate with an audience. Baring your guts, allowing yourself to be simply human for everyone to see. Creative, flawed, brave, hurt, joyful. 

135 days ago I walked past Cal Anderson Park in Capitol Hill on the first sunny Saturday of Seattle’s spring. My bones had started to rumble that week, vibrating with the anticipation of the flowers preparing to burst out of the ground. I saw a pair of boys throwing a frisbee and allowed a pull in my heart to push me across the park to introduce myself. 

135 days ago I didn’t yet know the ways in which I’d come to love them, but over the next few months, the two boys from Cal Anderson Park would become my allies in late-spring-early-summer adventures. And as May tipped into June, they’d become some of my best friends. I don’t believe in coincidences, rainy days always give way to sunny afternoons in the park, which in turn roll into late nights laughing loudly at the dining room table with new friends that don’t feel new at all. 

127 days ago I performed at my first stand-up comedy open mic in the dark bar around the corner from my house because I promised a friend I would. 

124 days ago I performed a second. I have found a shocking comfort on the stage in front of strangers. I tell people I’m not sure if I’ve ever really written a joke, I just do stand-up like I talk to my friends: the stories of my life just seem to write their own punchlines. My journal has filled up with pages and pages of bits I use to drum up laughs and my friends have queued up waiting for their invitations to come watch. What a privilege it is to make people laugh. 

157 days ago I went on a kick swearing to everyone in my immediate vicinity that I could eat 20 croissants in 15 minutes. 101 days ago I only ate 6. As a friend of mine always says, the comedy sets just write themselves. 

42 days ago I played my first soccer game in 2,600 days, give or take, and it has never felt so good to kick a ball out of bounds so many times. There’s a 13-year-old girl inside of me wearing an oversized jersey and carrying a pink soccer ball with her name on it. She’s filled with spirit and fire, looking up at me with adoring eyes for once again playing the sport we’ve loved our entire life. For a long time, I believed I’d just never touch a soccer ball again, but so often parts of us are not dead, simply hibernating. 

28 days ago I started dating the tall boy I picked out of a field in Cal Anderson Park. 

10 days ago I saw my family. 

5 days ago I went to a birthday party. 

I don’t remember the last time it rained. 

In 31 days I will have lived in Seattle for a full year. Soon, it will start raining again. I will buy a new raincoat but not an umbrella. I’ll stock up on new boxes of tea and get a better pair of rain boots. I will play more music and less ultimate frisbee.

Parts of me will sleep as the days shorten. I will slow down, I  will feel sadder, I will hold myself with grace. I will squeeze my friends, make more phone calls, wrap myself in blankets and good company. 

I do not do as well in the winter, my soul favors the 92 days of summer and their 9 pm sunsets, but I will continue to learn to find peace in slowness and the cycles of the earth, growing and shrinking with the phases of the moon and surrendering to the circling of the earth around the sun.

I have been alive for 9,348 days.

And I will be sure to let you know the next time it rains.